


On Air

by milkysterek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Anyone Who Works Night Shift is Weird By Default, Bad Jokes, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Derek Hale & Lydia Martin Friendship, Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Radio Host Derek, Radio Host Stiles, Stiles Stilinski & Kira Yukimura Bromance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkysterek/pseuds/milkysterek
Summary: Derek is a good man. He’s well kept, well presented, always gives money to charity and has even been known to help the odd old lady cross the road now and again. He’s a good person with a kind heart and there is absolutely nothing in his life that he has ever done to deserve this.“I’ve done nothing in my life to deserve this,” he reiterates, boiling with hate in his seat across from Stiles. It’s the bad seat, the one with the wonky wheel that got broken when Greenberg had defiled it during the Christmas party. He’s far away from the radiator, too, and Stiles is eating his watermelon.A Radio DJ AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gage/gifts), [janey_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janey_p/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was given this as a prompt through [ awrittenvoid](https://awrittenvoid.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. It's a super great blog where you can sign up as an author to receive a prompt or you can send a prompt in and have it assigned to an author. It's awesome and you should try it out!
> 
> This prompt was sent by [janeypro](https://janeypro.tumblr.com/) and [tygerblaze](http://tygerblaze.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> I was going to have this whole fic be only one chapter but I have seven works to complete in time for sterek week and spacing these out in chapters makes it quicker and easier for me to have it all written and edited and stuff.

_ Gooood morning, folks. It is currently ten A.M, the birds are singing, the sun is shining and you know what that means! Time to wake Stiles up! _

 

The blaring of an air horn startles Stiles from his previously peaceful sleep. Like all mornings, he has that brief moment of ‘ _Oh my god what the fuck is going on???_ ’ before awareness and acceptance of his fate washes over him and he strips himself of his bedsheets. The air horn is still honking in long and irritating wails and Stiles wonders just how Erica still has listeners. Groping around blindly in the mess of blankets and pillows, he finds his phone and shoots off a text to his friend. As expected, the air horn comes to a quick and merciful stop. 

“Another successful wakeup call,” Erica’s sing song voice travels through the pink, retro styled radio and Stiles rolls his eyes, making to move to switch it off but not before he hears Erica announce the next song,  _ Jerk It Out  _ by Caesars. Maybe he can listen for a little while longer - just while he’s getting ready. 

He finds Kira in the living room dressed in her pyjamas and wrapped up in Stiles’ old, ratty Star Wars blanket from when he was ten. He always used to use that blanket when he was ill - or faking it - to score points with his dad. Even as a kid that blanket had been sad looking and a sad looking Stiles curled up inside of it was an unfair match against his soppy and emotionally driven father. There’s a bowl of vegan chips in Kira's lap and the television remote is balanced precariously on her boobs - or as Kira likes to call them, nature's self-shelf. She doesn't look anything like ill Stiles or fake ill Stiles.

“Taking a sick day?” That’s unlike Kira and she doesn’t  _ look _ particularly unwell but she was due in at work at least two hours ago. Plus, Kira’s boss is a real hardass so it isn’t like she would be deliberately late. 

“Nope,” Kira shakes her head, a triumphant smile on her face, chip half crunched in her mouth, “I quit. I’m done working for some bogus company I don’t even like. From now on, I’m going to follow my true passions.”

Stiles is halfway to the fridge, on the hunt for breakfast. He turns back to his roommate with a surprised expression. He’s known Kira for years - she used to date Stiles’ friend during high school and when they had broken up, Kira somehow got Stiles in the divorce… not that Kira and Scott were actually ever married - but he’s never known Kira to do something so… spontaneous or risky. She’s a quiet girl who’s content with getting on with her life without bothering anyone. To Stiles, this is all kind of shocking. 

“You just left?” He asks, getting his breakfast shake from the fridge. It’s gross and he hates it but Kira is on a health kick and apparently, that means Stiles is too. 

“Yeah,” She confirms, her eyes glued to the screen where  _ The Bachelor _ is playing, “Stormed out and everything. You should have seen the look on everyone’s faces. It was perfect.”

Stiles takes a gulp of his breakfast shake and cringes as the gloopy substance slides its sloppy way down his throat. He’ll grab something else on his way to work. 

“Well,” He gasps, wiping his eyes from the hell-drink, “I’m proud of you. Lemme know if you need any help with,” He gestures vaguely, “Anything.”

 

_ Sex on Fire _ is playing on his way to work. He likes listening to Erica (when she’s not doing his daily wake up call - which he had requested she do in the first place so he doesn’t know why he continues to complain about it). While he doesn’t usually share her taste in music, the beat is always familiar and exciting, something to get him pumped for the day. It’s also nice to hear her voice, confident and comical as she jokes with callers and gives them life advice which Stiles knows for sure she isn’t qualified to give. He’s still a little bummed out that he doesn’t get to see her much apart from when they hand over shifts, but listening to her on the way to work fills a little of that void. 

Stiles pulls into the parking lot at work and climbs out of his battered old jeep. His job doesn’t pay as much as people expect it to but he definitely earns enough money to upgrade his wheels. That’ll never happen, though; the jeep used to belong to his mother and he’ll never let go of it, no matter how much his co-workers taunt him. 

When he’s walking through the double doors at the entrance to the station he hears an all too familiar and blood-chilling clip clacking of heels on tiled flooring. Stiles spins just in time to be caught face to face with his manager, Kali. Kali’s been running the station since her husband died under mysterious circumstances almost a year ago and she  _ hates _ Stiles. Mainly because he causes her a lot of trouble by mouthing off on the air about whatever’s bothering him that day - and then _she’s_ promptly added to his list of botherings. 

He’s just about to greet the woman with a cheery hello and good morning when she lifts her palm and closes her eyes like the mere sight of him gives her a headache. That’s entirely possible. “Stilinski, my office - _now_.”

 

“Sit,” Kali orders from behind her desk. Her eyes don’t leave her monitor as she types away on her computer, most likely looking over ratings or whatever it is people at the top do. Stiles is simply the ‘talent’; he has no idea what goes on behind the scenes. 

He does as he’s told and rubs at his forearm, not sure what to do with himself. Kali has this way of making him feel like a kid being called to the principal's office for sticking thumbtacks on his teacher’s chair. Coincidentally, that is something Stiles has definitely done in his youth. 

“Uh, why am I he-” He begins to ask uneasily but is quickly cut off by the answer to his question.

“I’m cancelling your show.”

_ Oh, fuck _ .

“What?” he splutters.

Kali sighs and continues typing like she hasn’t just sent Stiles’ entire life spiralling out of control. He’s being fired, he has no job and  _ oh god _ Kira quit her job today; they’re now a no income household. How are they going to pay the rent? Stiles is going to have to become a - he shudders - children’s entertainer! Oh, good, now he really is spiralling. 

Oh, good, now he really is spiralling. 

Tapping her long, manicured nails on her desk, Kali raises a judgmental eyebrow at him, “If you’re done, there’s more I wanted to add.”

Stiles just nods, not sure what else could be coming but, with no job, it’s not like he has anywhere else to be right now. 

“I’m going to be blunt, Stiles: your audience doesn’t like you,” Well, that - that was unnecessary. From the amount of hate mail Stiles has received over the last year he’s hosted his show and his rapidly declining listener count, he’s kind of grasped the fact that he isn’t exactly the most popular DJ on the air, but kicking him when he’s already down is just plain mean. 

“Maybe they just haven’t warmed up to me yet?” He tries, knowing fine well that angle isn’t going to work. Once Kali has made up her mind, she’s made it and there’s no way Stiles is going to change it. He’s unemployed. 

Kali rolls her eyes, “It’s been a year. If they haven’t taken a liking to you by now, they’re not going to. And it isn’t just that-” 

_ Great _ , Stiles thinks.

“-It’s everything about you. You’re too opinionated. The people who listen at eleven in the morning on a weekday aren’t looking to hear about your sexual exploits, political standpoints or any of the other controversial topics you insist on bringing up every show.”

Okay, he over reacted before.  _ This _ is kicking him when he’s down. 

“Look,” The woman sighs, taking pity on him. It’s a strange sight to behold, really. “You’re a good host and you’re entertaining to a certain crowd that I may or may not be part of, but the eleven AM slot really isn’t for you. Our listener ratings are going down as it is and if I don’t shift some weight around, we’re going to have to close the station. I know you don’t want that.”

He really doesn’t. Stiles doesn’t get along or even  _ know _ everyone at the station but he’s friendly with a few of the other hosts. He’d hate to see them out of a job, too. That doesn’t stop him wanting to lick his wounds though. At least Kali hinted that she find him entertaining. That’s gotta be something, right?”

“Luckily for you, I do think there’s still a demand for your…  _ talents _ \- it’s just not at the eleven slot.” 

Stiles frowns and notices he’s been looking down at his feet while Kali spoke, really committing to the role of feeling sorry for himself. He blinks up at the woman, confusion etched on his shamed face, “What?”

Kali sighs and leans back in her chair, rubbing at the crease between her eyebrows, “I’m not firing you, Stiles.”

“Then what are you doing?” He asks, starting to get frustrated from all the confusion. He just wants a straight answer; he doesn’t care what it is.

 

The press of the sofa cushions against Stiles’ face is scratchy and uncomfortable. They also smell like the chips Kira was eating this morning which Stiles thinks means she’s been wiping her greasy fingers on the furniture again. He’d call her out on it if he wasn’t busy doing his best to be dead; dead people can’t bitch at their roommates. 

“It can’t be that bad,” Kira encourages when she reenters the room. There’s something metallic and clicky in her hands but Stiles can’t see it because he’s being dead. “Look on the bright side, at least you haven’t been fired.”

Stiles lifts his head up at that and turns his blank stare onto his roommate. “Kira, we’ve known each other for a long time and I love you like a sister but right now it feels like we’re strangers.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” She smiles, shaking her head. 

“ _Overdramatic_ ,” And, yeah, maybe his flailing arms don’t help his rejection of her statement, but he can’t help it, he’s feeling totally attacked right now. “Working with Derek Fucking Hale isn’t just worse than being fired, it’s worse than being dead. I would prefer  _ death _ over this!”

Kira blinks. 

“Death.”

The thing is, Stiles and Derek don’t exactly get along. It’s been that way since Stiles’ very first day at the station when he had stumbled into work with four different brands of coffee balanced in his arms and promptly crashed into Derek’s broad, muscular, statuesque chest. The coffee had gone everywhere and left both of the men with red, blotchy patches on their skin for hours. It was an accident, an accident that could have been easily laughed off with an apology from Stiles but things hadn’t turned out that way. When Stiles had gone to apologise and tried to right the wrong he’d been met with a sour-faced asshole who kinda sounded like he was growling and, well, when faced with assholes, Stiles has a tendency to run his mouth. Over the years, things have only gone down hill for the pair; Stiles and Derek being forced to present a show together can only end in tears, Stiles knows it. 

“ _ Okay _ ,” The woman nods and looks down at the wires and clippys and other strange things that she has piled in her arms. “Can I tattoo you?”

“Sure, why not.” 

It’s not like he has anything left to lose. 

 

Stiles drives back to the station half an hour earlier than necessary. 

There are few cars on the road and the soft, yellow beams from his Jeep's headlights illuminate the long stretch of tarmac in front of him, fading the thick dark around them to a deep, purple glow. The silence is peaceful in a strange sort of way. It’s strange because Stiles finds he likes it - likes the way the jeep purrs and splutters and groans as he drives along, the noises from Roscoe the only sounds on the deserted highway. He doesn’t play the radio this time; right now a man called Matt is presenting and Stiles can’t stand him. One time at the station Christmas party, Matt made a pass at him and the creep ended up needing twelve stitches. 

When he finally rolls up to the station, Stiles pops his door open and closes it again behind him. It’s chilly out this late at night and Stiles decides to add that to his list of reasons to hate the night shift. 

Night shift is something that Stiles has never wanted for himself. It’s a well-known fact that only weirdos and creepers voluntarily work the night shift; who else would willingly condemn themselves to a life of bad coffee, flickering fluorescent cubical lights and moths -  _ so many moths _ . Night shift is another one of the many, many issues Stiles holds with Derek Hale; you just don’t trust a guy on the night shift. 

After signing in, Stiles heads up to the studio that he’ll be calling his work space for the foreseeable future. He specifically came early so that he’d get here before Derek. He has to squirm past Matt but it’s worth it to get the best mic and the chair next to the radiator. 

The expression on Derek’s face when he walks in and finds Stiles lounging there, looking as if he hasn't a care in the world as he helps himself to Derek’s watermelon from the communal fridge is just a bonus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ end my reign of terror on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night because apparently, I'm feeling motivated. Also, It's 4:20am while I'm typing this. Easter egg. 4:21 now. Life is fleeting.

Derek is a good man. He’s well kept, well presented, always gives money to charity and has even been known to help the odd old lady cross the road now and again. He’s a good person with a kind heart and there is absolutely nothing in his life that he has ever done to deserve this. 

“I’ve done nothing in my life to deserve this,” he reiterates, boiling with hate in his seat across from Stiles. It’s the bad seat, the one with the wonky wheel that got broken when Greenberg had defiled it during the Christmas party. He’s far away from the radiator, too, and Stiles is eating his watermelon, “That’s my watermelon.”

With an obnoxious slurp and a wipe of his mouth, Stiles looks down at the now empty container, “Really? I don’t see your name on it.”

“It’s right there,” Derek growls, tightening his grip on the arms of his chair, “On the lid.”

Stiles blinks those big, Bambi eyes full of fake innocence and thinly concealed mirth, “I’m sorry, I must have missed it.”

They both know fine well he didn’t miss it. 

It doesn’t take long for Kali to appear, her expensive fur coat hanging loosely over her arm and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head. She had failed to mention that Stiles would be working with Derek until the annoying little fuck had already staked his claim on Derek’s studio. Derek isn’t one to complain or challenge his boss’ authority, but a little forewarning would have been nice. To perhaps have a smidgen of preparation before he was to meet face to face with the devil wouldn't have gone amiss. 

That’s a bit of an exaggeration. Stiles isn’t evil, he’s just awful. He’s loud, rude, endlessly annoying and sometimes downright nasty if you catch him on a bad day - or so Derek’s heard; he hasn’t had all that many face to face encounters with the man and he would have liked to have kept it that way. 

All that’s changed now, though, and Derek guesses this is something he’s just going to have to get used to. Maybe if they play nice, their listener numbers will go up and Stiles can go away again. It’s always best to have hope. 

“Derek, I trust you understand what’s happening here,” Kali says breezily as if she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Erica says she has a house in the Hamptons and her own private jet so Derek thinks she probably does; it doesn’t escape his notice that Kali has very lavish and expensive tastes and yet her radio station is still falling apart at the seams. 

Nodding, Derek looks back over at Stiles who he finds beaming at him with a shit eating grin. Derek wants to hit it. 

“How long are we going to be,” He stops himself before  _ putting up with each other _ slips out, “Working together?”

Kali smiles and pushes her sunglasses down onto her nose, despite the fact that it’s almost one in the morning, “Until I say otherwise.”

 

_ Going live in five… four… three… two…  _

The intro music to Derek’s show plays throughout the booth and everyone hurries to their places. In a perfect world without Stiles, Derek’s chair would have rolled with perfection towards his desk and he wouldn’t have nearly tumbled to the ground when his wheel decided to give out. Derek’s - and he guesses Stiles’ - producer, Braeden, enters the studio, takes her seat at her own desk and all three of them pull on their headphones. Out in the corridor, Mason is rushing around with a coffee pot in hand and dozens of brightly coloured sheets of paper. He’s an ‘unpaid’ intern who works here every few nights while he’s studying at college. Derek can’t help but slip him a twenty here and there for his work simply because he likes him. Mason's a great kid and although it earns him a bunch of dirty looks from the other interns who aren't in his favour, Derek likes to help the kid where he can. 

Braeden raises her hand and Derek slides closer to the mic.

“You’re listening to the BHRS Nighttime Broadcast with your host, Derek Hale,” He speaks calmly and clearly into the mic, keeping his voice nice and smooth. His listeners enjoy that. “Due to new scheduling and the  _ cancellation  _ of _ his _ show, I will be joined tonight and for the foreseeable coming nights by Stiles Stilinski. We apologise for the inconvenience.”

Silencing the mics, he selects the first song and settles back in his chair, pulling his headphones down to slot around his neck. 

“What was that supposed to mean?” Stiles demands, wheeling his fully functioning spinny chair towards Derek while  _ The Way You Used To Do  _ by Queens of the Stone Age plays in the background. 

“What’s what supposed to mean?” Derek asks with the same faux-innocence that Stiles had used earlier. 

Stiles glares, “Apologising for the  _ inconvenience _ ! I’m a godsend to your boring ass show; you should be grateful!”

Derek rolls his eyes and pushes Stiles’ chair away harshly with his foot, sending the man rolling away with his scowl still perfectly in place. 

“And don’t think I missed how you put emphasis on  _ cancellation _ ,” He adds, almost hissing the last word like it’s dirty. Derek takes a sick pleasure in it. Serves him right for the watermelon theft. 

“That’s enough, you two,” Braeden hits the pair with her judgement eyes, the eyes that tell Derek that if he doesn’t behave he’ll pay for it in some obscure and definitely unnecessary way. Braeden is married to Derek’s older sister, he knows her wrath better than any other. “If you can’t play nice I’ll send you both home and have Mason present the show.”

Mason, who’s now stood in the doorway with his coffee pot, casts panicked eyes across the room. “Mrs Hale, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Braeden covers her eyes with her hands. “I was joking, Mason.”

“Oh,” Mason smiles and enters the studio, closing the door behind him, “That’s okay then.”

“Mrs’ Hale,” Stiles repeats like he’s trying it out in his mouth. It doesn’t look like it sits well. Stiles grimaces, “I didn’t know you two were married.”

Mason has just gotten done filling up Derek’s coffee when the man chokes on it. It’s hot and burning as it sears down his throat and collects heavily and uncomfortably in his stomach. Laura and Braeden got together when Derek was only thirteen and since then she’s been a permanent fixture in his life. As far as Derek’s concerned, the woman is just as much his sister as Laura is. 

“Should I be taking note that you’re bad at swallowing?”

Derek glares and wipes his mouth, “Braeden is married to my sister.”

Stiles smiles and spins in his seat to face the woman, “Congratulations.”

 

The ending of  _ How You Like Me Now  _ by The Heavy plays throughout the studio and Derek and Stiles re-apply their headphones. You’d think with working in radio that he’d be used to the way the headphones feel like they’re squashing his brain and how they never fail to mess up his hair but he’s not. It’s awkward and annoying and he always leaves work the next morning looking like he’s been fucked out real good thanks to the hair thing. The glances he gets from his elderly neighbours - because, yes, he lives in an area surrounded by old people - could possibly kill him one of these days. 

Stiles probably doesn’t have that problem, Derek thinks. His hair  _ always _ looks like he’s just had a good fucking and Derek doubts he lives anywhere that that sort of behaviour would be frowned upon. Not that Derek spends any amount of time thinking about Stiles or his hair or his life outside of work or anything. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Derek presses the button for the mics, “That was  _ How You Like Me Now _ by The Heavy and before that we had some Queens of the Stone Age. The phone lines are now open for requests so call up to hear your song get played. We also have a text line on the same number as always being manned by Mason, so feel free to send him a text and say hi. Up next is Red Hot Chili Peppers with  _ Can’t Stop _ .”

Derek turns the mics back off and hits the button for the song to play, then turns back to Stiles who’s staring at him expectantly. Whatever, Derek’s not going to say anything. 

Sighing dramatically, Stiles leans forward on the desk, almost crushing against the soundboard. Derek wants to swat at him, “Is that it?” He asks. 

“Is what it?”

“That,” Stiles says, exasperatedly, “You just… announce the songs?”

Derek slow blinks and hopes his disinterest in conversing with Stiles shows through, “That’s my job.”

“ _ Oh my god _ ,” Stiles almost yells, flopping back in his seat. Derek glares. “That’s so boring. You’re so boring!”

Something inside Derek flinches at that and he feels his non-existent hackles raise at the insinuation. Derek is not boring, he’s very interesting, thank you very much, “I am not  _ boring _ .” He defends but he’s pretty sure Stiles has spotted his weakness because now he’s  _ grinning _ . 

“Oh, boy, you sure are,” The man nods, amusement lighting his bright and sparkling eyes. Seriously, those eyes are ridiculous. Derek hates them.

Huffing, he gives in, “Fine. This is just as much your show as it is mine now; what do you suppose we do?”

Something crosses Stiles’ face, kind of like he wasn’t expecting that as an answer.  _ Underdog _ by Kasabian plays. “Well, I like to talk to them - tell them about what I’ve been up to. You know,  _ engage _ with the listeners.”

“Ah, yes,” Derek smiles condescendingly, “because that ended up working so well for you.”

Stiles scowls again but only for a moment because Braeden interrupts, “Actually, that’s a pretty good idea.”

Derek looks at her with betrayal in his eyes, Braeden only shakes her head like Derek is the most ridiculous thing she’s been forced to encounter all day. 

“Like it or not, that’s what most DJs do and you can joke all you want about Stiles’ listener count but yours isn’t far off that. Why do you think Kali paired the two of you up? You suck almost as much as Stiles does so take your head out of your ass and maybe you’ll learn something.”

This isn’t the first time Derek has gotten a telling off from Braeden; he’s been getting them since he was a kid and not all of them have been verbal, but there’s something about getting his ass handed to him in front of Stiles that stings all the more than any of the wrestling moves Braeden has performed on him in the past - including that time she and Laura decided to try and use him like a Stretch Armstrong. 

What’s worse though is she’s right. His listener interactions are way down, the lowest in the whole station. Even Stiles’ show was higher than his but that was mainly because of the hate mail. Everybody knows about Stiles’ hate mail. Despite that, though, Stiles is generally good with people - or so Derek has heard - and being good with people is something Derek definitely isn’t. That’s the whole reason he chooses to work during the night in the first place: so he doesn’t have to interact with people. 

In hindsight, radio presenting probably wasn’t the wisest choice of career. 

“Wow, Brae, that was harsh,” Stiles nods solemnly, “True, but harsh.”

Derek still wants to fucking hit him. Instead, he presses the button for the next song -  _ Reptilia _ by The Strokes - and tries to remember his breathing exercises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember Stretch Armstrongs?
> 
> ♡ burn me with a cigarette and spit in the wound on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stan for the new golden trio and you should too.

The walk down main street the next morning is excruciating. Everything is so loud; the people, the traffic, even the damn birds - and  _ the sun _ . Oh, god, the sun! Who gave it the right to be that bright? Stiles’ eyes feel like they’re burning out of his sockets and yet he still manages to feel cold all over. He’s shivering as he climbs the steps to the cafe where he’s agreed to meet his friends and with every fibre of his being he damns sleep deprivation to hell. 

How can anybody be expected to function on three hours of sleep? 

Kira and Jackson are sat at a table on the decking outside of the cafe, around the back that looks out over Beacon Lake. They’re sipping mimosas despite the fact that it’s half nine in the fucking morning and Stiles isn’t sure if he wants to puke or if he wants to cheer. Maybe both; both sound good. 

“Wow,” Kira says slowly as Stiles takes a seat at their table. There’s already a mimosa sitting waiting for him and in that moment he couldn’t love his friends more if he tried, “You look rough.”

“Yeah,” Jackson agrees, giving Stiles a sympathetic tilt of his head, “What time did you get home?”

Stiles groans and takes a long, slow sip of his drink, “Six.”

“That’s awful,” Jackson commiserates, “Today’s drinks are on me. You look like you need them.”

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says sincerely, but the thought of more than one alcoholic beverage is making Stiles’ stomach churn, “But I have work again tonight and though going in drunk might help me put up with Derek, I don’t think I can afford to replace the decks when I inevitably throw up on them.”

Kira smiles, cheery and bright, “I’ll drink his then.”

The two descend into playful bickering and Stiles places his head down on the table. He’s exhausted right down into his core. His bones ache, they feel like they’re suddenly ten times their normal weight and every inch of him sings with the need for proper rest. Last night was wretched and the knowledge that he has to do it all over again is even worse.

It’s not Derek, not really. He isn’t that bad. It’s more the hours than anything. Listening to Derek announce song after song from one until five is mind numbing in a way that Stiles hasn’t experienced since Mr Harris’ science class in high school - and, yeah, maybe that part  _ is _ kind of Derek’s fault. He’s not sure if he can deal with that, night after night with only the weekends as some form of release from Derek Hale’s monotone hell. 

Well, he won’t be seeing a repeat of that, mark his words. Tonight (or tomorrow, one is technically tomorrow) will be different. Stiles is going to take control and give those listeners something to stay awake for. 

Who's even awake during Derek’s broadcast hours, anyway?

Jackson puts his empty glass down in front of Stiles’ face and observes him with pity, “Looking at you makes me sad.”

 

An hour later and Stiles finds himself tucked up in bed with Kira and Jackson at either side of him. They’re watching  _ The Bachelor _ again because Kira’s addiction has become a sickness that she’s passed on to Jackson without mercy. The curtains are drawn shut so very little light is able to get in and Kira’s forced a sleeping mask onto Stiles’ face to ensure none of that pesky left over light can disturb him. It’s sweet, really, that his friends have gone to such trouble to make sure he doesn’t die of sleep deprivation. 

“I can’t believe I have to work with Derek,” Stiles whines in the darkness. 

“Thinkin’ about him, huh?” He hears Jackson sneer, knowing full well that there’s a smirk plastering his face without having to look at all. Stiles chooses to ignore him.

Kira shifts from the other side of him and rests her head on Stiles’ chest. From here, he can smell her shampoo- wait… no, he can smell his own shampoo. She’s been stealing it again! 

“I don’t know why they didn’t just cancel your show and replace you with me.”

Despite not being able to see, Stiles still makes the head gesture of looking down at his friend. “I thought you were being a tattoo artist now?”

Kira sighs and he feels her body shrug, “I’m just saying, I have a better taste in music than you.”

“Uh, no you don’t,” Stiles snorts, thoroughly offended. It’s sacrilege to insult another person’s music taste, everyone knows that but, hey, Kira started it, “Meaningless poppy bullshit doesn’t even count as music.”

“I doubt your listeners agreed with you. If they did, you wouldn’t have gotten cancelled.”

“Hey!” He snaps but it lacks venom. His ego is too wounded for anything more, “They cancelled my show because they hated my personality, not my music taste!”

From Stiles’ other side he feels Jackson curl up against him, resting his chin on top of Stiles’ head, “You’re a very depressing person.”

The trio is quiet for some time after that, comfortable in their mutual silence. Jackson and Kira watch the screen, occasionally commenting on what’s happening and adding their two cents. Stiles tries to get some sleep; he has another four hours of work again tonight and he needs to be well rested if he’s going to bring his A-game. Try as he might, though, he can’t seem to nod off, even with Kira rubbing his chest rhythmically and Jackson stroking his fingers through his hair. It’s soothing and nice but Derek is still playing on his mind and so is his entire work situation. 

The thing is, Stiles has always felt self-conscious of the way he presents to people. All his life he’s been told that he’s annoying and that he never shuts up, that he’s a smart-ass who doesn’t know what’s good for him. People didn’t like him at school and they don’t like him now and it doesn’t matter how much he tries to hide it or how much he tries to deny his feelings - having people not like him really sucks. It hurts and he hates it and now it’s eating him up when he’s supposed to be  _ sleeping _ .

“Do you guys think I have a bad personality?” He asks during the commercial break when Kira is just starting to nod off despite it only being eleven am at this point. “Like, am I annoying or something? I know people say it a lot but I guess I thought they were just joking around. I’m not really that unlikable, am I?”

“Of course not,” And Stiles is surprised that it’s Jackson who comes to his defence, “There’s nothing wrong with your personality. You’re a sweetheart.”

Stiles smiles into the darkness, feeling his cheeks heat up just a little. Even though the two have grown closer over the years to the point that Stiles now willingly calls Jackson one of his best friends, they don’t have the sort of relationship where they seriously compliment each other or talk about their feelings. They’re more of the casual name calling and friendly punching type of besties, “Huh,” He nods, “I bet high school Jackson wouldn’t agree with that. What changed your mind?”

Jackson chuckles, “Character development.”

 

Stiles gets to work five minutes before his shift starts, head splitting and dog tired. He popped a couple of aspirin just before he left home and they’re only just now starting to give him some relief. Hopefully, they’ll kick in fully before he has to sit and listen to music for the next four hours. One can only hope. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, bypassing the elevator entirely in case he runs into Matt on the top floor. This proves to have been a wise decision when he spots the man lurking around in the corridor outside of the studio. Stiles ignores him. 

Unfortunately, Stiles’ exhaustion induced hangover and subsequent lateness mean that Derek’s arrived at work before him and has managed to call dibs on the good chair. When Stiles’ enters the studio feeling like death himself it’s to the sight of Derek wrapped up in his tight leather jacket, leaning back in the chair with a smirking, smarmy look. He’s even wearing his sunglasses indoors like a douchebag. Oh, God, how he hates him.

“You’re the worst,” Stiles tells him as he makes to grab for the broken chair. He’d have a go at Braeden’s chair while she’s out of the room but he has a feeling that would end in bloodshed, all of it his own. 

Derek seems unfazed and continues to lounge leisurely until Braeden enters the room with Mason at her side and starts the countdown. The man shrugs out of his jacket, revealing his baggy henley that still manages to somehow look tight. It’s a great look on him, Stiles has to admit, and if his eyes linger on Derek’s frame for just a little too long, Stiles is the only one who notices. 

He watches as Derek takes off his glasses and hooks them on the front of his henley, the weight of them pulling the fabric down just enough to leave a few wisps of dark hair on show. Stiles wonders if his entire chest is like that, covered in his dark coat like a wolf man; maybe he has a hairy ass, too? 

It takes a lot of willpower to snap himself out of that one and Stiles looks away, cheeks burning until he hears Derek reach for the mic. 

He’s not sure how he manages it so fast, but before Derek can start his nightly greeting, Stiles has grabbed his own mic and dragged it the short distance forward until it’s right in front of his mouth, “Hello, hello, hello,” he grins, sparing a glance towards Derek who’s glaring daggers at him for stealing his intro. Let the guy pout all he wants; it’s Stiles’ turn now, “You are listening to the BHRS Nighttime Broadcast with your hosts, resident sourpuss Derek Hale and me, Stiles Stilinski. We’ll be rocking your world for the next four hours so stay tuned and enjoy the ride!”

There’s already a vague outline of songs to play, evidently one’s that Derek has picked but Stiles chooses to pretend he hasn’t seen them and instead hits play on  _ Spread Your Love  _ by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

Derek doesn’t look impressed. 

“Hey,” Stiles smiles nice and wide, showing Derek his teeth and holds out his arms on either side of himself in a passive gesture of innocence, “You said it last night, dude: this is just as much my show as it is yours, so get used to it.”

 

“So talking,” Stiles begins when the next song -  _ Highway  _ by Bleeker - starts to come to an end. Derek looks uneasy from his seat across from Stiles and he almost feels sorry for the guy before he reminds himself that Derek is an asshole - an asshole who wears sunglasses indoors,  _ at night _ , no less. Still, the pity is nearly there, creeping in at the corners like a spider dragging some poor, unsuspecting fly into its web. That’s something Stiles will have to keep an eye on. He doesn’t want to risk something like _feelings_  happening again. 

Stiles is about to press the button for the mic’s when Derek pipes up, “I’m not good at public speaking,” 

On reflex, Stiles hits the button for the pre-recorded voice over instead, the one where Erica in her sultry voice announces that  _ you’re listening to BHRS Nighttime Broadcast from one AM to five AM every weekday, with your hosts, Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski _ . Huh, she must have updated the voice over. Boy, that woman works fast. He plays an advert for car insurance after it. 

“You’re not good at public speaking?” Stiles asks, voice incredulous. It’s not that he thinks Derek is full of shit, it’s just that… who goes into radio hosting if they’re afraid of public speaking. It’s just odd, is all. 

Derek grunts and looks away, fiddling with the sunglasses that are still hooked over his shirt. Does Stiles detect a hint of embarrassment? He sure hopes so. That’s leverage if he’s ever seen it. 

Still, that weird, nagging sense of pity strikes again and Stiles sighs, “Just follow my lead.”

The advert cuts, the station’s theme music plays and Stiles starts up the microphones. He pulls his towards him with ease and moves his headphones until they’re covering his ears. 

“Well, hello there, girls, boys, neither and both,” He grins into the mic, letting the familiar sense of routine fall over himself. Stiles loves his job. He loves performing, joking, entertaining a crowd. He always enjoyed that sort of thing when he was at school and now it’s like he’s gone one up. People actually  _ tune in _ to hear him make jokes and generally be an asshole now. Well, not really, cause he got cancelled for lack of viewers and the overall hate he was getting, but you know what he means.

“We hope you’re having a great evening wherever you are, we certainly are here in the studio,” Stiles spins in his chair and hits his co-host with an expectant look, “isn’t that right, Derek?”

Derek just stares at him then leans into the mic without so much as blinking, “I guess.”

Well, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected a little more oomph. Then again, Derek doesn’t look like the sort of guy who does oomph. He looks like the sort of guy who does eye rolling and pretending to text on his phone to avoid conversation. 

“Damn, Der, don’t get _too_ excited.”

“Don’t call me Der,” Derek responds, quick as lightning and Stiles grins. He can see in the man’s eyes that he knows that grin means no good. 

Beside the soundboard there and piles of neatly organised papers that Stiles think’s must be Mason’s work. He takes a pen out of the nearby stationary pot, grabs a sheet of paper and starts writing. In Stiles’ experience, the best way to introduce yourself to a new crowd is by telling them a bit about yourself but that can get boring and repetitive over the radio. Luckily, Stiles has a much more entertaining solution. 

He pulls the pen away from the paper and replaces it to the pot. Mason appears from wherever he’d been previously and quickly collects the note when Stiles holds it in the air. The intern looks down at the paper and smiles before walking over to the nearby bean bag chairs and plops himself down, his phone in hand. 

While Stiles was writing, Derek had been doing announcements for the local area all the while eyeing Stiles’ note taking suspiciously. Stiles can’t blame him, really. 

When Derek finishes, Stiles leans back into his mic, “Fun fact, listeners: Derek and I only recently met each other properly and we don’t know a thing about each other,” the man muses, twirling his hair around his index finger as he leans on his elbow. His hair isn’t the only thing he’s toying with. An organised list of questions pops up on his computer screen, “So, I’ve had intern Mason find us a bunch of ice breaker questions. Yours should be coming up on your screen now, Der-Bear.”

Stiles scrolls for his list, a maniacal grin on his face. He can’t help it, he’s enjoying himself already and he’s only just started. “You wanna go first or should I go first?”

“I don’t care.”

“You can actually taste his excitement in the air,” Stiles gasps, his voice full of fake-awe and sarcasm. Derek sticks him with a glare. He’s already picked a question, “Okay, I’ll ask first; what three words would you use to describe yourself?”

Derek glares harder.

“You have to answer,” Stiles warns, “Or producer Braeden will pick a forfeit.”

Stiles ignores her declaration of  _ I’m staying out of this _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like i've just finished editing this and my eyes keep closing accidentally cause i'm so tired like i think i caught all the mistakes but like who knows so i apologise. my eyes are closed again. 
> 
> kira and jackson are good friends and you should support them. the next chapter carries on from where this one left off xo
> 
> ♡ let me fuckin nap on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	4. Chapter 4

The heat from the radiator and the stability of a seat with all four wheels intact is little consolation for the hell that has become of his professional life. Just a few short days ago, Derek had been happy; he had a cozy little job on the top floor of the building, a job he could do efficiently and with very few problems or complaints and he didn’t have to talk to anyone face to face outside of Braeden and Mason who don’t really talk to him that much anyway. 

Now- now… Well, nothing much has changed about the job. It’s the same thing, really, except now he has to put up with Stiles. Stiles, who once scalded Derek with four whole coffees and then yelled at him about his eyebrows that were apparently overly aggressive for the workplace. Derek thinks this guy is fifteen whole shades of crazy - and now he’s making him play games live on his quiet and sensible radio show! 

When it comes down to it, Derek picks the words aggrieved, displeased and disinterested to describe himself. They’re not entirely accurate but he thinks they do a pretty good job of representing his current self at that moment. Stiles doesn’t look too impressed. At least Mason cracks a smile - though Derek isn’t too sure how he feels about Mason right now. The kid seems to be fraternising with the enemy. It’s distressing. Derek isn't blind, though. He can see the allure of Stiles himself do he doesn't blame Mason too harshly. Not that Derek finds Stiles alluring or anything. That would be absurd. 

“Well,” Stiles says, looking miffed, “If Derek doesn’t want to play properly, I guess we should get some music going!”

For a moment, Derek feels a little bad, like his stomach is sinking. He didn’t mean to be an asshole or for Stiles to stop the game altogether, especially when it’s only just started. He makes to apologise but quickly remembers two things: they’re on air and Stiles is a way bigger asshole than him anyway. 

Stiles solidifies that assessment by announcing the next song, “Just so there are no hard feelings, I’d like to dedicate this next song to my lovely co-host. Here’s a little bit of Two Door Cinema Club with  _ Surgery _ , because Derek needs surgery to fix that shitty attitude.”

The song starts playing and Stiles spins in his seat to face Braeden; Derek is still recovering from that  _ attack _ . 

“Am I allowed to say shitty,” He asks, looking genuinely worried. 

Braeden shrugs, an amused half smile on her face as she watches the pair interact, “We’re past the watershed; as long as you don’t say cunt, we should be good.”

“No C-bombs. Got it,” He says and spins back to his computer screen, scrolling away and definitely not looking at Derek. 

Yeah, Derek definitely feels like an asshole now. He chews on the inside of his mouth, unsure of what to say until the chorus of his dedication kicks in. Then he looks up at Stiles. “Uh,” He starts, thoroughly uncomfortable. It wasn’t like he had upset Stiles on purpose. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to stop the questions. I’d be okay with continuing.”

Stiles glances at him from the corner of his beautiful, honey eyes and slowly raises a brow, “You talk weird.”

Derek leans back in his chair and raises his chin in a challenge, “You _look_ weird.”

“We really don’t want to start bringing looks into this.”

“Why not,” Derek inquires and lets himself swing in the chair just a little, swivelling from side to side with practised ease, “Afraid you’ll lose?”

The song finishes and Stiles leans back into the mic, a new wave of determination set in his shoulders and a renewed spark of mischief in his eyes. Derek wonders if trying to make amends might have been the wrong move. He’s basically thrown himself straight back into the line of fire - except the bullets, in this case, are questions about his personal life - which may be worse than  _ actual _ bullets. 

“After grovelling all through that song, I have decided to give in to Derek’s begging and allow him to take part in the questions game once again,” Stiles says in his light and breezy tone as if he’s doing something charitable for Derek out of the kindness of his heart. 

When Derek talks into the mic in his droll and sarcastic tone, it’s easier and more natural than he’s used to. This is something he does every day but there’s always that distant edge of anxiety, a tightness and unfamiliarity that no matter how many years he’s worked in radio, he just can’t seem to let go of. Yet, when he’s rolling his eyes at Stiles and hitting him with a comeback, he finds it’s easier for him to forget about the listeners on the other end. Well, it’s hard to concentrate on an audience he can’t see when he’s focusing on how ridiculous Stiles is.

“Yeah, sure, that’s how it happened.”

“So,” Stiles claps his hands together. Derek isn’t sure that’s good for the radio, “It’s your turn to pick a question.”

The list that Mason sent to Derek’s monitor isn’t all that long and the questions aren’t too interesting. There are questions Derek would like to ask, answers he would like to hear, but they’re mundane things and he isn’t sure they’re something the listeners would care all that much about. There is one, though, that could work, “ If someone made a movie of your life would it be a drama, a comedy, a romantic-comedy, action film, science fiction or a straight to DVD?”

“Hey,” Stiles whines and points at his monitor, tapping it repeatedly until the screen shakes and Braeden shoots him a dirty look; their station if failing, remember? They can’t afford to go breaking equipment over question tampering, “that straight to DVD part isn’t on the question list! You can’t just add your own dialogue, Derek.”

“You have to answer,” Derek mimics in a voice that he will definitely deny having ever used later, “Or producer Braeden will pick a forfeit.”

“Fine. It would be a romantic-comedy. Now it’s my turn and since you went off script, I’m going to, too,” Stiles declares primly, sticking his chin out, “Why do you dress like you sell drugs to teenagers around the back of seven eleven?”

“I don’t know,” Derek answers with an air of confidence that comes as a surprise even to him, “Why do you dress like a lesbian?”

Stiles splutters and looks down at the outfit that he’s wearing. He’s close enough to the mic that Derek is positive that the listeners will have heard Stiles’ little indignant gasp loud and clear. The man’s mouth is hanging open and his cheeks are flushed pink when he answers, “I do  _ not _ .”

“Uh,” Derek huffs a laugh, sliding closer to the desk in his chair and resting one arm casually on the surface as he leans into it, “Yes you do. One of my moms and both of my sisters are lesbians and they  _ all  _ have that exact same flannel.”

Braeden spins in her chair, leans into her mic and smirks over at Stiles, “It’s true,” She shrugs, “They have a rota for who’s allowed to wear that shirt when.”

The look that seems to be permanently making its home on Stiles’ face is comical and Derek decides to take just a little pity on him. Clicking on the song screen, he searches the repository until he finds what he’s looking for. 

“While that was fun, I think it’s only fair we let Stiles recover from that bitter defeat,” He says into the mic, eyes watching the song load up, “So, in the meantime,  _ I’d _ like to dedicate a song to  _ him _ \- I think it conveys my feelings for you perfectly.”

Bad Day by Darwin Deez plays throughout the studio and Derek watches Stiles’ outraged face with childish glee.

 

The window in the studio looks out on the station's parking lot. It’s virtually empty at this time; most of the staff are all tucked up in bed and preparing for an ungodly six AM start. That’s what time Derek usually gets home and curls up in his king size, melting into the mattress and letting the stress of the night leech out of his pliant skin. He can’t wait to get there after his shift. Stiles has been giving it to him hard since Derek’s little stunt with the song and his very accurate observation of Stiles’ wardrobe. 

‘Giving it to him hard’ is probably something Derek shouldn’t be thinking in regards to Stiles, especially when he’s at work, in a room full of people. 

_ Black Hole Sun  _ by Soundgarden is playing through the speakers while Derek and Stiles check the messages that Braeden if feeding through their computers. There are more texts and general feedback coming in tonight than Derek usually gets in a week. He’s not dumb, he knows it must have something to do with their new set up. It’s weird because Derek would think he and Stiles’ constant bickering and bashing would put the listeners off. He knows that he himself hates being in a room with people who are arguing; it’s awkward and uncomfortable but for some reason, this audience seems to be into it. Into it in a big way. 

“This is good,” Braeden says, scrolling down her screen, “This is really good. The listeners are eating your two up.”

Stiles swings from side to side in his seat, a smug smile on his face, “Well, we are delicious.”

Derek ignores him and looks back at his screen. For all the interaction makes him nervous, this influx of communication with the audience is giving him a strange and new sense of bravery and maybe even pride. 

“Maybe we should talk to them,” He suggests, peeking up over his monitor. 

Stiles snaps his fingers and points them back at Derek, “That’s a great Idea. Mason,” Mason is in the doorway, four coffees in his arms. He walks around the group, placing the drinks down beside them, “What are you doing at this time when you’re not working.”

Mason checks the time, it’s two-thirty in the morning, “Usually, procrastinating from doing my homework and panicking over how fucked my sleep schedule is.”

“That’s it,” Stiles grins and does a little shake of excitement. Derek would almost describe it as cute if Stiles hadn’t told him he looks like he sells drugs to kids tonight, “We’ll do a sprint.”

Raising his brow, Derek sips his coffee and enquiries, “What’s a sprint? I’m assuming we’re not going for a run.”

“Of course not,” he drawls, “I run for no bitch. No, a sprint is like, when you dedicate an amount of time to working and nothing else. We can put on some motivation music and cheer on our student listeners for thirty minutes. I mean, who else is awake at this time? This is a great idea.”

Derek is sceptical. He’s pretty sure listening to the radio is part of procrastinating. How can listening to more radio possibly help with productivity?

“I agree with Stiles,” Braeden pipes up from behind her coffee cup, “Most of your listeners are students. This could be a good way to engage with them and it might get them talking about the show when they’re at college.”

Well, Derek isn’t one to argue with Braeden and he certainly doesn’t want to argue with her  _ and _ Stiles. He knows when he’s beaten. 

 

At three, they check the phone lines. Red blinking lights signify each caller and Derek watches the flashes with a wary gaze. Derek doesn’t usually get hate calls - he doesn’t usually get calls at all - but Stiles does and though Braeden is adamant that their listeners are enjoying the new duo, there’s always a chance that someone’s taking a disliking to them and wants to voice that publically. 

Braeden’s already answered all the calls once and placed them on hold; Derek’s keeping them waiting now. 

“Just answer one already,” Stiles sighs and does one full turn in his seat, his eyes held skyward in exasperation. 

Derek squints back at him in what he hopes is an intimidating way and presses the button for caller number one, making the device stop on a glowing red. At the same time, Stiles gets them back on the air and they start the conversation. 

The caller is a student from the local community college. She’s been up all night drinking coffee and attempting to get an essay done for her English class. Apparently, hearing Derek and Stiles’ verging on very real fighting has kept her spirits up through the long night. 

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Stiles croons, resting his chin in his palms, elbows propping him up on the desk. Derek watches the way Stiles bats his lashes, despite the girl being unable to see him through the radio and, now that his eyes are on Stiles’ face, it’s only natural that they trail down to those puffy, pink lips. 

God, Derek wants to kiss those lips. 

That thought shocks Derek out of his messy, messy thoughts and he pushes himself to sit back in his seat. He looks down at the button again, watching the red glow and tries his very best not to think about what he was previously thinking about. The girl is still talking and it’s like a lifeline - something he can cling to, to take his mind off of… that. 

“If you need any suggestions for things to do with the new branding,” The girl offers, her voice high and sweet, “On the weekends, my friends and I will normally be ubering back from bars around this time. Maybe you could play some party songs?”

That’s a good idea and Derek says as much. It’s something to keep in mind for Friday when Derek and Stiles will be trapped in this booth again for the last time before their two days break from each other. With the way Derek’s mind has been wandering tonight, the weekend can’t come sooner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed this fic was originally supposed to be twelve chapters long; I've added another so now it's at thirteen. Basically, there was supposed to be another part of this with Lydia and Cora but I haven't updated in eleven days and I don't want to leave it any longer. I think this chapter ends quite nicely anyway so yeah. 
> 
> Next chapter will have a little surprise at the end for both word count purposes and because I'm sorry for making y'all wait. 
> 
> ♡ punch me in the mouth and collect my teeth like trophies on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bonus chapter carried on from the last and is still in Derek's POV. Enjoy!

Derek near sprints past Stiles once their shift is over, desperate to get out of that cramped and far too warm studio. He never should have sat near the radiator. Whatever the hell went on with him tonight only got worse as the hours ticked by and now that he’s finally free it’s like his entire body is screaming for him to get out and into the fresh night air. He has to keep telling himself that this is nothing, his body is just being weird. This sort of thing is completely normal when you’re a healthy, twenty-something man who hasn’t gotten laid in so, so long. So fucking long. 

Shit. 

He prays to god that nobody saw his boner. 

The coolness of the outside breeze that soothes his inflamed skin is like a blessing and he says a silent thanks even though he doesn’t actually think anyone is listening. Not now that he’s off the radio, at least. Now that he’s out and far away from Stiles, who is probably still on the top floor waiting for the elevator, his mind has the opportunity to clear a little. 

That was stupid. He’s stupid. Everything is fine and he does not want to fuck Stiles. Who  _ would _ want to fuck Stiles, anyway? A lot of people, he thinks and then chastises himself.  _ Fuck _ , he needs to get out of here. 

 

Cora and her girlfriend live close enough to the station that it’s easy to drop in on the way home. He should really go back to his own place and get some rest but there’s too much on his mind and he needs to unload all this bullshit on someone. Cora’s not ideal; she’s bratty and hates talking about feelings,  _ especially  _ with Derek, but she’s the only option right now. Normally, Derek would head straight to Laura’s, lay down with his head on her lap and use her as his own personal therapist but Laura is a damn dirty gossip and she’d tell Braeden everything before Derek could even get the words out of his mouth. That would be terrible. So very terrible. 

Derek climbs out of his car and starts up the stairs to Cora and Lydia’s apartment. He knocks, having learnt about the penalties of barging in unannounced long ago, and waits until his sleepy and dishevelled little sister answers the door. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, stepping in and pulling off his leather jacket. Cora just shakes her head and points to where Lydia is standing in the kitchen area, making what looks and smells like bacon. Probably bacon. Derek can’t be sure, though. In his opinion, Lydia Martin should never be allowed in a kitchen unsupervised. That woman possesses many talents but cooking is not one of them, “Is that bacon?”

“There’s not enough for you,” Lydia answers primly and turns her nose up, probably not wanting to give Derek an excuse to insult her cooking  _ again _ . He understands - and without any sleep, eating would only make him throw up. 

“She’s being mean to me,” He says in way of response, turning his eyes back to his sister who’s clambering into her spot on the sofa, yawning as she goes. Cora always looks adorable in the mornings, which is a harsh contrast to the crime boss that she presents herself as in the afternoons. 

Not caring about her brother’s complaints in the slightest, Cora pulls a blanket over her body and starts flicking through the channels, her tired eyes hazy as they hold their gaze on the screen. She swallows hard and yawns again. Derek catches it and gives one of his own, coming to sit down by his sister. 

“To what do we owe this pleasure,” Lydia asks and brings the plate of bacon into the living room. Cora immediately grabs at it and Lydia rolls her too-bright-for-morning green eyes.

There’s no point denying why he’s here. Lydia has to leave for work in half an hour and Derek is sleep deprived and irritable at the best of times. There’s no causal reason for him to drop in at this time unless something’s bothering and while Cora might be happy to ignore whatever inner turmoil her brother is facing, Lydia is not. 

Sighing, he leans back into the sofa cushions and closes his eyes, “I have a new co-host.”

“That mouthy one who offered to fight a guy in the station parking lot live on air because they said safe queer sex shouldn’t be taught in schools?” Derek just nods at Cora’s question and she hums around her bacon, “Erica thinks he’s cute.”

Derek huffs. That isn’t saying much, “Erica thinks everyone is cute.”

“Yeah, but she says this guy is really cute.”

Lydia points at her girlfriend and nods, “It’s true. Erica says that he has these amazing eyes that you can almost get lost in and that his skin is baby smooth and he’s covered in these cute little moles.”

“And,” Cora continues on, “She says that his lips look like they’re just  _ waiting _ for you to stick your tongue between them - not that I can relate to that - and he can probably suck dick like a champ.”

The girls keep talking but their voices are getting too fuzzy for Derek to follow along. Erica says a lot, but she’s nearly always right and Stiles’ lips - they, well, they really  _ do _ look like they could suck dick like a champ. They look like they could do a lot of things to a high quality, actually. What would they look like wrapped around a finger, sucking the digit and getting it nice and slick with his own spit before Derek could bring it down and search out that tight heat? He wonders what Stiles’ hypnotic, honey eyes would look like, how they would widen if Derek was to spread him open, fingering deep. 

“Oh my god,” Cora groans and she sounds exhausted and a little repulsed, “You wanna fuck him, don’t you?”

The blush that flushes to Derek’s cheeks and ears is a huge fucking blinking ‘yes’ sign hanging over his head. He still denies it though, because that’s the done thing. 

“You totally want to fuck him,” Lydia says, nonplused. She snags a bit of bacon and stands, “Which is very unprofessional, by the way. Also, it’s rude to pop a stiffy in someone else's house.”

Cora screeches and Derek knows it’s time to go home without gaining a thing from this conversation, “Get out you gross fuck!”

 

Self Esteem by The Offspring plays as Derek’s douchebag sports car tears down the highway. Early morning traffic is a bitch and he needs to beat it if he’s going to get home in time to… Beat it. The eternal hardness trapped inside his tight jeans has managed to wipe away any sense of exhaustion from his body and has left him feeling hollow and shaky. That’s sleep deprivation, probably, but the need to touch himself is stronger and more overpowering. He can worry about sleep later. There are more important things to think about right now. 

Maybe this is what he needs to get all these strange, complicated feelings out of his system. He hasn’t had a good fuck in so long, hasn’t touched himself in longer; there’s no way those things aren’t linked to his… problem. He’s horny and touch-starved and that’s it. It isn’t  _ Stiles _ . It’s Derek. Derek is something Derek can work with. Derek is something Derek can fix. 

Driving as quickly as he is, it doesn’t take long for the building that houses his loft to come into view. Stiles’ little remark about Derek looking like he sells drugs to kids doesn’t seem all that out there when you take a look at where he chooses to live. The loft is way out of town, down a one-way road that’s rarely used and that leads to the old, abandoned industrial districts. Derek feels like a Batman villain and, if he’s honest, he kind of likes it. It’s far enough away that people can rarely be bothered to visit and the ones that can are too creeped out by the doom and gloom atmosphere to stay for long. It’s perfect and Derek doesn’t care what anyone says - it’s home. 

 

Derek is back in his bedroom by six-thirty, only half an hour later than he usually makes it home. He still isn’t tired, though, and that exhaustion that had been lurking at the edges of his consciousness, watching and waiting, continues to be kept at bay by his singing libido. 

His pants are off by the time he makes it to the bed, long gone with his shoes and his soon to be joining them shirt. 

The soft, grey duvet on his bed feels like a caress under his naked body and he lets himself melt back into the fabric. He’s had this set for a while and they’re kind on his skin from years of washes. The sheets smell like lavender detergent and he lets his eyes fall shut, listening to the sound of birds waking, chirping and the long missed click of the lube cap. The lube is cold against his fingers and smells too strong for Derek’s liking but that’s all he has and he’s not going out and buying more - the novelty cherry flavoured will have to do. Derek doesn’t even like cherry; thanks a lot, Isaac. 

When he finally gets that first finger inside himself it’s like a relief. Through his haze of lust and eagerness to get home, he hadn’t noticed how wound tight his muscles were. They let go all at once when he gets his first finger all the way in to the knuckle. He hums to himself, breathing in deeply and lets all that pent-up angst leave his body, expelling into the air. 

Stupid Stiles. Derek doesn’t know what he was so fussed about. Obviously, all he needed was a little time to himself. Now that he has it, everything feels back to the way it should be. He rubs his finger around a little, gently moving it in and out of his hole while he stretches. He really shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of a little sexual tension. Maybe he was the stupid one, dashing on out of the station and hightailing it to his sister’s house like it was the end of the world. Sure, Stiles is hot. Hell, he’s beautiful - but that doesn’t mean he has to make a big deal out of one dumb crush-

Derek stills his fingers - because at some point he’s managed to wedge three in there - and snaps his eyes open. He does not have a crush on Stiles Stilinski and he’s  _ certainly _ not getting off on the thought of him alone right now. No sir. That is  _ not _ happening. 

Oh, God. 

He rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. Fucking hell. Now he’s started, he can’t stop and the image of Stiles is burning its way into his mind. Drek’s hips roll forward, cock sliding along his bedding giving him the sweet, sticky relief that he needs while his strong, capable fingers stroke at his soft insides. Those doe eyes, his puffy lips; Derek can’t get Stiles out of his head and honestly, he doesn’t want to. He pushes into himself deeper and jerks his hips against the warm embrace of his bed. Stiles’ lips aren’t the only thing about his mouth that makes the kid so very irresistible. The back talking, wicked little quips that tumble from his tongue with cutting jibes send a thrill through Derek. Imagine was what that mouth could do if he was here now. Imagine what he’d say. 

Derek cums on the thought of Stiles urging him on, whispering in his ear, telling him what a good job he’s doing - but how he himself could do better. He bets Stiles could do better, he thinks, as he rolls onto his back and slips beneath the sheets, his body exhausted and sleep heavy. He wonders what Stiles would look like with Derek’s fingers stuffed inside him.

Fuck. 

He’s screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in a month but let's just pretend that didn't happen. I've been busy! I think. I can't really remember but it's my birthday on Saturday ayy.
> 
> ♡ come scream about cordia with me on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is TEN FUCKING THOUSAND words long. Hence why it took me so long now that this fic is my main priority again. Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> (P.S There's a character describing their experience with stalking at the very end of this chapter so just a heads up!xo)

Kali calls Stiles and Derek to her office on a Thursday. She’s surrounded by sheets upon sheets of paper, strewn this way and that and covered in graphs and statistics that Stiles doesn’t want to look at. He knows he and Derek are doing well, even if it feels like they’re always caught in the heat of battle. Whatever it is about their on-air fighting, the listeners are loving it. The other presenters even have a poll going on the station's website for who they think is going to strangle the other first. Derek’s in the lead and Stiles is only a little bit offended by that - and a lot offended by the fact that his own  _ dad _  has voted for Derek too.

They’ve been working together for a few weeks now and Stiles is starting to get comfortable. He’s enjoying the night shift a lot more than he ever enjoyed his daytime show. Mason’s a cool kid, they have a lot of similar interests and Stiles likes spending time with him - and bullying him a little on the side, but it’s all in good fun and Mason doesn’t seem to mind, just grins and hits Stiles straight back with a burn of his own. Braeden’s pretty cool too and Stiles has even caught a drink or two with her on their weekends off. She has a lot of stories about Derek from when he was a kid and Stiles delights in them, storing each embarrassing tale away for the air, where he can unleash them on Derek in front of their hoard of listeners. Honestly, it’s amazing content.

Derek, though… Derek’s been a little weird lately. Stiles can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something off about him. He’s okay when they’re on the air. They joke and call each other and hurt each other’s feelings in that completely natural way that they have. It’s when they’re off air and Braeden and Mason are packing up to go home that Derek starts acting like a total goof. He looks uncomfortable, like he wants to peel his way out of his own skin and make a run for it. He  _ does _  make a run for it most days. The second their shift is over he dashes for the stairs and is out of the parking lot before Stiles can even put his jacket back on. It’s weird - but Stiles suspects Derek has always been a little weird and the whole tough guy act is exactly that: an act. An act to cover his weirdo personality.

Still, it’s kind of annoying when they’re doing something important. Like now, for example.

They’re sat at the opposite side of Kali’s desk on plastic chairs that look like they belong in a middle school. They probably do, to be fair. The station is low on funds, remember? Stiles wouldn’t put it past his colleagues to steal from schools. Especially Matt; he comes off as the type of guy who likes to take from children. That’s just a hunch of his.

Anyway, they’re sat opposite Kali - except Derek is  _ leaning _ . He’s leaning almost straight across like he’s trying to get as far away from Stiles as he can in such a small and cramped space. Stiles would feel hurt but he doesn’t do this when they’re on air. In fact, when they’re talking, bantering, badgering each other, it’s almost like Derek is leaning  _ into  _ him. He’s such a weird guy.

“Stiles are you paying attention,” Kali asks, her face deadpan.

“No,” He answers honestly - and then catches himself, “I- uh, I mean, of course. I am. Of course, I am.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth, even as he leans away. See? Weirdo!

Stiles squints at his co-host then finally turns his attention to Kali who’s looking thoroughly unimpressed. He wonders if they’re due a telling off. They do sometimes go a little far with each other when they’re live. At least, for Stiles, he knows he forgets there are people listening to them sometimes when they’re bantering. Kali raises her brow expectantly and Stiles drops his gaze. He doesn’t want to lose this job too, after all.

“We’re holding a fundraiser,” She says, matter of fact and cutting right to the chase. Stiles snaps his head up, a grin coming to his lips while Derek looks almost sheepish, “The entire station will be there. I’ve rented out a field near the preserve, organised some bands to play and have already started the advertising for it. All I need the two of you to do is show up. Can you do that for me?”

“Totally!” Stiles beams and claps his hands together in excitement. He loves these things. Mini-festivals full of students and weird hipsters having fun, bad food from burger vans and tacky face paint - Stiles thinks they’re great and this one is going to be even better because Stiles has actually been invited this time.

For obvious reasons, he was asked to sit out of the ones in the past, what with all of the people that wanted to kill him.

Derek clears his throat, “Uhm, I don’t really like meeting people,” He says, his face starting to contort into a scowl, “That’s why you want us there, right?”

“Obviously,” Kali smirks and folds her hands together, “You two host one of our most popular shows. And Derek,” She says, her voice going sickly sweet.

Derek raises his chin in question.

“I wasn’t asking.”

 

Stiles wakes up on Saturday morning to the sound of crashing in his kitchen. His eyes fly open and he leaps from his bed and through the apartment to find Kira sprawled in the middle of the floor, consumed by pots and pans and so many other utensils that Stiles doesn’t know the names of.

“What in the hell?” He asks, his head spinning from moving so quickly straight after waking up. He pulls Kira to her feet and helps her brush herself down. She isn’t hurt but she is covered in flour and, to be honest, he isn’t sure he wants to know what she’s doing today. It doesn’t matter what he wants, though, because she goes and answers his question anyway.

“I’m a chef now.”

Stiles raises both brows and moves to the fridge as Kira starts to clean up her mess. They’re done with the health kick now, thank god, so he’s free to eat what he wants for breakfast - and that means last night’s pizza. He takes the pizza from the fridge and places a slice of the pepperoni on a tea plate, then puts it in the microwave for a minute. He doesn’t care if you’re judging him; he’s a radio DJ, he’s supposed to be gross.

“What sort of chef?” Stiles asks once his pizza has pinged. He takes a bite and it’s as good as it was the night before so suck it.

Kira shrugs and smiles as she puts the pots and pans and other miscellaneous items back in the cupboards, “An unemployed one, at the moment.”

Stiles smirks affectionately at his friend and shoves his pizza in his mouth. It’s a good thing Kira accidentally woke him up; the festival is today and he wants to get there early to help Erica set up. He’d also like to miss the traffic - but mostly he’s going early to help Erica. Because he’s a good friend.

“Follow your dreams, babe,” He shouts and closes his bedroom door behind him.

_ Under The Bridge  _ by Red Hot Chilli Peppers plays while he gets ready. There’ll be a lot of people there, some of which will want to take pictures with him so he needs to look presentable but not too overdressed. It’s forecast to be nice out and he doesn’t want to get hot and bothered. The song has a slow and hypnotic beat that Stiles can’t help but sway and sing along to while he rifles through his closet.

“I don’t ever want to feel, like I did that day,” He half mumbles, half sings as he pulls out a yellow shirt with an orange sun on the front. He pares it with some light blue cut off jeans and rolls them up until they’re sitting just above his knees, “But take me to the place I love, take me all away.”

The little dance he does around his room while he tackles his clothes on is something he’s glad no one is here to witness.

After he’s brushed his teeth, found his white trainers and stumbled out into the living room, he plants a kiss on Kira’s cheek, wishes her a happy day of ruining their kitchen and finally heads out for the festival.

 

_ Guerrilla Radio _  by Rage Against the Machine plays full blast inside Stiles’ jeep. He slams his hands against the steering wheel like he’s playing the drums and nods his head along to the beat; he has to keep reminding himself not to close his eyes during his jam-out session, lest it be his last. He’s almost at his destination, the orange tape and people wearing reflective jackets leading his way to the parking spots around the preserve. He was excited to be attending before, but now that he’s here and can hear music blasting from somewhere beyond the treeline that’s threatening to rival his own, he can’t wait to get out and look around.

Stiles flicks off his music and climbs out of the jeep, locking it behind him. The sound of  _ Santeria  _ by Sublime playing off in the distance makes him grin and hurry down the dirt path towards the festival ground. There are ribbons tied to trees to tell him what direction to go in and there are trash bins dotted here and there along the trail. Stiles is glad; festivals have a habit of getting messy and Beacon Hills preserve is such a nice place. He doesn’t want to see the area ruined because of his station.

By the time he makes it to the clearing it’s a little too late to help with the setting up and there are already a few festival-goers littering the field and hanging around the attractions. There’s a funhouse this year and Stiles’ skin itches to unleash himself upon it. He’ll leave it for later, he thinks. Right now he needs to find Braeden to tell her he’s here and hasn’t slept in and missed the whole thing - thank you very much. She doesn’t need to know about the whole Kira accidentally waking him up thing. That really isn’t relevant.

He finds her setting up their booth between a burger van -  _ score _  - and a bouncy castle -  _ double score _ ! Mason’s with her, face painted and dressed like - well, he’s dressed how every other student at the festival is dressed. He looks good, though, and Stiles is pretty sure he knows it. There’s a boy with him that Stiles learns is his boyfriend, Liam. Liam’s kind of withdrawn and gloomy and doesn’t seem to want to party with the cool kids but that’s fine. Stiles will break him eventually and, failing that, the kid could always hang around with Derek. They could have a good frown together. Maybe scuff their feet in some dirt and think about things that aren’t fun and exciting and bouncy...

Fuck, he really wants to play in that bouncy castle. He wants to fucking  _ soar _ . Maybe do a flip. Maybe do  _ two _  flips.

“Stiles, concentrate,” Braeden snaps her fingers in front of his face and he reluctantly tears his eyes away from the bouncy, air-filled paradise. His time will come.

“Yeah, boss?” He asks, stepping into the booth. It’s basically a gazebo with a table in front of it that’s covered in merch. One of the shirts for sale has ‘I dress like a lesbian’ printed on the front of the bright red material. Stiles scowls; he does not dress like a lesbian, lesbian’s dress like him. He takes comfort in the fact that there’s a matching black shirt with ‘I sell drugs to teenagers round the back of seven eleven’ written on it. He considers buying it but notices the chairs before he can continue that thought. Instead of normal plastic seats or camping chairs like the other booths have, they’ve somehow managed to acquire an actual sofa. It’s a dirty, dusty pink colour and made of crushed velvet. It looks so very comfortable and Stiles wants it. He wants it now.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to sit down,” Braeden smirks, catching Stiles in the act. He’s in the process of clambering over Mason when he freezes in his tracks, “We’re here to work, not lounge about.”

Stiles raises a brow and folds his arms, “Then why is there a sofa?” He asks loftily.

Mason smiles brightly and pushes Stiles off him. He tumbles to the floor. Traitor, “Because I stole it from my school's dorms.”

Stiles grins back and shoots the kid a well-earned wink, “Theft, I like it.”

All is forgiven.

Braeden just closes her eyes, takes a moment for herself, then starts dishing out orders. It’s all hands on deck and no one can be spared, including Mason’s sulky boyfriend who gets stuck wandering around handing out fliers with Stiles and Derek’s faces on them. Stiles has no idea when those photos were taken or how Braeden even got a hold of them and frankly, he doesn’t think he wants to know. Instead, he settles on doing as he’s told in order to avoid any major injury. He’s grunting and groaning, trying to move a speaker that’s twice his size when Erica pounces.

“I never thought I’d see the day that Stiles Stilinski found something too big for him to handle.”

A brief pause of confusion makes Stiles squint from behind the speaker before a cock-sure grin makes its way to his lips. He waggles his eyebrows at Erica and caresses a hand down the speaker’s smooth side, “I can’t move it; no one’s saying I couldn’t fit it up my ass.”

Erica’s laugh is like wind chimes and it never fails to make Stiles smile. The woman punches him in the shoulder; it’s good-natured but it still hurts and Stiles pouts as he rubs the tender area, “I’d say you’d need a lot of lube but knowing you…”

She leads off suggestively and Stiles snorts.

Out of the kindness of her own heart and only a little bribery, Erica helps Stiles with his duties and together they manage to move the speaker into place beside the main stage. They’re both a little sweaty and pink-faced by the end of it so they decide that it’s probably okay for them to take a little break and wet their whistles. Braeden can’t force him to work without something to drink, surely? Even if she can, she’s not Erica’s producer. If worst comes to worst, he can hide behind her. Not that he’s scared of Braeden or anything…

“So,” Erica taps her long nails on her plastic cup. It has some awful smelling beer in it that neither of them particularly like but they both drink anyway because that’s what adults who don’t have their shit together drink at festivals. There’s something about the sharp look in her eyes that Stiles thinks he should be wary of, but he hasn’t seen Erica in a long time so he’s willing to risk it, “How are you enjoying the night shift? Make any new friends?”

Stiles knows exactly what she’s getting at and he tells her so as he knocks back the last of his beer and orders a second.  _ Be Who You Are  _ by The Kooks is playing from a speaker near them so loud that it makes the grass-covered ground beneath their unsteady barstools vibrate along to the beat.

Images of Derek’s face flash across his memory; his furrowed brow with that double crease in the middle that comes out whenever Stiles makes a reference the older man doesn’t quite understand; Derek’s prominent bunny teeth that peek out when Stiles makes him laugh with some dumb joke that makes Braeden roll her eyes and Mason cringe; those dazzling green eyes that crinkle at the side with something close to fondness.

Yeah, Stiles thinks, maybe he has made some new friends. He and Derek are often at each other’s throats; Stiles snapping at Derek’s ankles, looking for any sign of weakness that he can work at until Derek snaps right back at him and Derek who looks forever on the edge of choking Stiles out once and for all. They’re overly aggressive and rude and sometimes plain mean to each other but there’s something there. Realistically, he doesn’t think Derek would just sit there and take Stiles’ bullshit if he didn’t secretly like it just a little bit. Hell, he knows he wouldn’t stick around if Derek’s threats of bodily harm didn’t give him a jolt of excitement every time they were spat at him across the DJ booth.

(What? He’s into it - and he has nothing to be ashamed of!)

It occurs to him a little too late that he’s gotten lost in his own thoughts and forgotten to answer Erica’s question. Sheepishly, he turns to her and is immediately met with exactly what he was expecting: her trademark wolfish grin, “Let’s try again,” She purrs, “Since the thought of your new…  _ friend _  is obviously a lot more interesting than anything I have to say.”

“Sorry,” He chuckles into his cup, the bubbles in the beer blowing away from the breath from his laughter. He takes another gulp and wipes at his mouth, “I mean, you’ve seen Derek. You know how  _ distracting _  he can be.”

Erica shrugs one leather-clad shoulder and takes a drink of her own beer, “I suppose, if that’s your sort of thing.”

Stiles actually splutters at that - because Derek is gorgeous and you’d have to be blind not to see that and even then, you could feel his rockin’ body. It’s not just his body either. Derek has a  _ personality _ . A really nice one, too, Stiles suspects. You’d have to be a pretty nice person deep down not to throttle Stiles at least once after being shut in a room with him for four hours each night. Also, Derek wore a sweater to work once that had thumb holes in it. Only giant babies wear thumb hole sweaters. Everyone knows that.

“You don’t think he’s hot?” Stiles gasps, scrutinising his friend with his gaze. He just can’t believe it. It’s preposterous.

Grinning, Erica finishes her drink and stands, flicking golden blonde locks over her shoulders, “I never said that,” She says, then, before leaving, adds: “But you certainly do.”

 

“Which house are you in?”

Mason is lounging on the field sofa, as Stiles has now decided to call it. His head is propped up against the armrest, his legs hanging over the rest at the other side. A well worn and obviously loved copy of  _ Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone  _ is resting in his lap as he slowly thumbs through the pages. Stiles smiles, feeling relaxed and easy from his sneaky little drink with Erica, and comes to sit down on the grass near Mason’s head. He rests his chin on the edge of the sofa and grins, doing a little fist pump.

“Slytherin pride, bitch,” Mason snickers and shakes his head at Stiles’ display of support for his fictional house, “What are you?”

Mason grins and turns his head, “Ravenclaw, obviously. Although I think I’ve got a bit of Gryffindor in me.”

Stiles nods. He can see it. Mason is super smart and original in his own way. He isn’t afraid to be himself either, no matter what anyone thinks. Stiles can appreciate that about him. He looks over at where Liam is sulking in the corner, clearly wanting to be anywhere but this random field in the middle of nowhere, “What about you?” He asks.

Liam shrugs and shoves his earbuds in, ignoring their conversation.

Both Stiles and Mason look at each other and say in perfect sync: “Muggle.”

_ Who Needs You  _ by The Orwells begins to play. Stiles thinks it’s fitting. He’s about to climb on top of Mason and crush him into the sofa so Stiles can actually have somewhere decent to sit when Braeden comes back from wherever the hell she was before.

“If you two are slacking you better start running now.”

It probably works in their favour that they both try to look a little sorry. Mason jumps to his feet in that obnoxiously quick was happy young people can do without grunting and having to crack their spine. Yes, Stiles is aware he’s young people, but he’s not as young as Mason and he’s slept on too many floors to get away with that shit. He has old bones, okay? Old bones.

Stiles pulls himself up from the ground and brushes the grass off his ass. Now that he’s vertical, he notices that Braeden isn’t alone. She must have gone to collect Derek because he certainly wasn’t here before and if he was… well, that’s some terribly bad perception skills on Stiles’ part.

“Hey Der-Bear,” He waves a little too enthusiastically and Derek scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. Stiles just rolls his eyes and pushes on because that’s the only way to get anything done with Derek Hale around, “What house are you guys in?”

Braeden raises her brows at him for a moment, then shakes her head and gets to unfolding a large, floral sheet that she then starts to pin up on a big wall like board. It kind of looks like a classroom divider, or something to hang notices up on. Braeden still answers, though, so that’s something, “I’m a Gryffindor.”

He wasn’t really expecting an answer from Derek and if he  _ had _  expected an answer, he would have thought it would be something like ‘brick’ or ‘rented accommodation’. He certainly hadn't expected Derek to come out and admit to being a Hufflepuff, here, in the year of our lord twenty-seventeen.

Stiles blanches and blinks rapidly, looking Derek up and down. He’s wearing that damned leather jacket again with skin-tight black jeans that Stiles has no idea how he even manages to get into. He thinks maybe they’re sprayed on - or perhaps he’s trapped inside them and needs to have them surgically removed each night before bed. Either way, they’re not fit for public viewing. Christ, there are  _ kids _  here. Poor Mason, that’s him tainted for life. The white, far too thin and baggy t-shirt that he wears under the leather jacket and over his mega ripped body is also very nice. Stiles bets it’s soft. He kinda wants to touch it. He doesn’t though - touch it, he means - because that would be kind of creepy and Stiles doesn’t like to be creepy. Creepiness doesn’t go with his own outfit. He’s being cute and breezy today.

As far as Stiles is concerned, Hufflepuffs are not supposed to look like that. They’re supposed to wear scarves and big, round glasses; have naturally wavy hair and own tiny potted plants with pretentious names - y’know, like those kids on Tumblr. This is  _ not _  what a Hufflepuff looks like. Derek looks like a fucking rockstar.

“There’s no way you’re a Hufflepuff,” Stiles scoffs and folds his arms, like he’s genuinely offended by the idea of Derek lying to him about a fictional school house. Stiles  _ is _  genuinely offended. He takes these things very seriously.

Derek blinks and shrugs, says ‘yes I am’ like it’s irrelevant and he doesn’t care, then walks over to where Braeden is still trying to pin up the floral sheet. Well, then. Okay. Derek is a Hufflepuff. That might be the cutest thing Stiles has heard all week but it’s fine. He’s a big boy, he can deal with it.

Just then, two hesitant looking girls edge their way towards the booth. One looks a little more confident than the other and it’s her that finally plucks up the courage to shuffle towards Stiles. Stiles quirks an eyebrow at them and smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. They come to a stop at the other side of the merch table, their hands gripping each other like a lifeline.

“Can I help you with something?” He asks, thinking that maybe they want to buy a shirt or something. He hopes they don’t want the lesbian one - thought it would be cool to see people walking around wearing  _ his _  merch. Even if it is kind of a self-burn.

The more confident girl clears her throat and pushes some of her hair behind her ear, “Um, we were wondering if we could have a picture?”

Stiles frowns, he’s not sure what they mean by that. From what he can tell from the merch table, they’re not selling anything that could be described as a picture. There’s a mug with Mason’s grinning face on it with ‘Intern Mason’ scrawled underneath the photo.

“I don’t think-” Stiles starts but he’s quickly cut off by Braeden who’s suddenly appeared by beside him. He blinks a few times in shock, then looks back towards the girls.

“That’ll be five dollars each,” She smiles, big and bright and holds out one of the donation buckets, then adds: “Or more if you’re feeling generous.”

The girls are students, if that, so they’re not feeling generous. They pay their five dollars each and practically beam rays of joy filled sunlight from their wide, toothy grins. The girls buzz with excitement and Stiles looks around in confusion until his eyes fall on the board with the floral sheet covering it.

The sheet is a backdrop.

Oh.

 

“I hate this,” Derek sighs, slumping against the board. Since it’s only a thin piece of metal covered in a carpet-like fabric with a manky old sheet thrown over the top which may well be Braeden’s grandmother’s curtains, the board wobbles and threatens to topple over. Both Stiles and Derek reach out in panic and grab the board before it falls over and breath a shared sigh of relief when it doesn’t. Stiles doesn’t think he can take another telling off from Braeden today. She seems to be handing them out like candy for some reason. Or maybe that’s just because Stiles is a little shit who keeps trying to avoid doing his job in favour of distressing his co-host. That’s probably it, he thinks.

“Leave me alone,” The man whines and the group of teenage girls that are surrounding the pair giggle and grin and snap picture after picture of the two. Stiles doesn’t know what Derek’s complaining about; he thinks the attention they’re getting is awesome. People are actually paying money to get photos with him - and yeah, sure, that money is going to the station so he feels a little good about that too. If he’s honest, it’s mainly about the attention. He'd known people would probably want to take photos with him but he'd figured those would be in a selfie setting, maybe while he's dancing in a crowd or sitting at a bar. He'd never imagined in his wildest dreams that people would want to  _pay_  to get their photograph with him like he's some sort of small-town celebrity. 

Oh, god, is Stiles a small-town celebrity?

The current group of girls disperse after Braeden shoos them away, shaking her collection bucket all the while. There’s a hoard of people waiting to get a photo with Stiles and Derek so, as much as Stiles would like to stand there and entertain everyone, they have to keep the line moving.

“Hi,” He says energetically, his face bright and welcoming as a timid looking young girl steps closer to them.

Separating away from Derek - not that they were stood too close together anyway - to let the girl in the middle for her photo, he stops when he notices she hasn’t moved from her spot in front of them. Stiles frowns, about to ask if the girl is okay when she finally plucks up the courage to speak.

“Actually, I was wondering if we could do something a little different,” She says and Stiles spots Derek tensing from the corner of his eyes. He’s really not enjoying this whole thing and, really, Stiles can understand that.

By now Stiles has long since worked out that Derek picked working night shift for a reason. He isn’t fond of crowds, doesn’t like social events and his perfect evening would probably be spent hauled up in his house, far away from civilisation, pretending he’s the only person that exists. That’s just an assumption Stiles’ made, though. He could be wrong. Derek might prefer to do jigsaw puzzles on an evening - and that’s his choice.

“Different… how?” Derek asks, his voice hesitant and uneasy.

At the prospect of getting her own way, even though all they’ve done is acknowledge that she may have a different request than the other fans that have paid for photos today, the girl lights up and begins to practically radiate  excitement.

“Okay, um, I was thinking maybe like, you both could, like, make it look like you're fighting over me?”

Stiles doesn’t see the harm in it and neither does Braeden if her noncommittal shrug is anything to go by. To be honest, Braeden looks a lot more interested in her bucket right now, so she’d probably give these kids the all clear to do anything they want to her boys.

Seeing no problem with the request, Stiles shrugs, “Okay.”

 

Escaping their small army of fans was not easily done. After a solid hour of standing around, grinning manically at Mason behind a camera, both Stiles and Derek were starting to go mad. After that first girl had asked for  _ something a little different _ , it was like a dam had opened and through the floodgates came more and more requests. Before long they found themselves being prodded and posed and manoeuvred left right and centre. It had been okay when they were asking for Stiles to hold their waist like they were at prom or when they asked Derek to look into their eyes - though Derek still looks thoroughly traumatised from that request. That was fine. Stiles could deal and even find the humour in it - it was all in good fun. The problem came when a new wave of fans crashed into them. A very particular type of fan. Stiles has never thought about being bridal carried by Derek, resting in his strong arms while Derek glares into a camera and a teenage girl points at them and grins toothily like a fucking wolf. Really, he hadn’t been expecting that sort of thing.

They manage to get away in lieu of taking a small break for a drink and a trip to the toilet block. Well, they do head to the makeshift bar, so they’re not entirely lying.

_ Fluorescent Adolescent  _ plays through the speakers around the bar and the two sit themselves down on a bar stool each. The crowds are thick now so they’re lucky to find a place that’s not packed to the brim with stumbling twenty-somethings and decidedly less than twenty-somethings that have particularly good fake IDs. The bar they land at is far from the main stage and near a smaller DJ booth. It’s a niche one, Stiles thinks, so naturally, they’re surrounded by a bunch of art students desperate to tell anyone who’ll listen about how different they are.

“Well,” He says as he hands over his money and takes a long gulp of his beer, “That was an experience.”

Derek raises his eyebrows in a way that Stiles has decoded to mean agreement, “Understatement.”

“I swear,” Stiles says, wide-eyed, “If things continue the way they’re headed, Braeden’s going to have us shooting a sex tape before the day is through.”

Apparently, Derek hadn’t been expecting that. The man coughs and splutters and his beer goes everywhere. Stiles smirks as Derek offers the woman behind the bar an apologetic look and takes the napkin she slams down in front of him. The beer mops up easily and Stiles watches, amused.

“You good?” He asks, “Need me to perform mouth to mouth?”

Derek glares and flops the soggy napkin back down onto the bar, “Need you to shut the fuck up.”

Stiles huffs and jabs Derek’s arm, then gets up from his stool, “That’s rude,” He says, then: “C’mon, I know someplace we can hide.”

Looking like he’s walking to the death chamber, Derek reluctantly follows Stiles’ lead. He tries not to be offended by Derek’s obvious lack of trust, however, the threat of more photos with fans seems to be enough to force Derek’s hand. It should be funny but something about that doesn’t sit well with Stiles. He’s not sure what it is but, as he thinks and self-reflects, he wonders if maybe it has something to do with the idea of Derek not trusting him. Or maybe it’s the idea of Derek not wanting to spend time with Stiles outside of work duties. That thought is just plain ridiculous; why should Stiles care what Derek thinks of him or whether or not he wants to hang? They barely even tolerate each other.

Stupid brain, going to places Stiles doesn’t want to explore yet.

There are more people hanging around the funhouse than Stiles would have hoped but he can’t spot any of the fans from earlier so he thinks they’re in the clear. Not that it wasn’t great meeting them or anything, it’s just that he really doesn’t think he and Derek should be spotted away from the group like this. Plus, how is he supposed to know which are fans and which are Braeden’s spies, ready to tell on them at the drop of a hat? They are  _ slacking _  after all.

“Absolutely not,” Derek says point blank. He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head for emphasis. Stiles tries to pull at his jacket, get behind man and  _ push _ . He even knocks his foot into the back of Derek’s knee to make him crumble but it’s no use; the asshole firmly refuses to move. Geeze, you’d think Stiles was trying to pull his teeth or something.

Exasperated, Stiles tips his head back and looks at the sky, then stomps back around to look at Derek face to face, “It’s just a fun house, you giant man-child. I know you’re not interested in  _ fun _ , some may say you’re allergic to it, that it brings you out in hives, but you don’t have to be such an  _ ass _  about everything.”

“I’m not being an ass,” Derek frowns and looks away to the side.

Stiles barks a humorous laugh and crosses his own arms, “Uh, yeah you are. Come play with me!”

“I’m not going to-” He begins, then stops himself halfway through. Derek takes a deep, long-suffering breath and shakes his head, “Fine, but if I trip even once, I’m going to kill you.”

Stiles beams and slaps Derek on the shoulder, “That’s a-okay with me, big guy.”

The funhouse doesn’t seem as teeming with people from the inside and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. He figures Derek is less likely to bolt this way. Still, Stiles ran track in high school; he’s confident in his ability to take Derek down if needs must. Not that throwing himself at Derek would be such a hardship. Derek looks good in the fluorescent lighting of the funhouse. Pink and blue strobes make his skin glow and his eyes glitter. This isn’t the first time Stiles has noticed, but the man really is handsome. Beautiful, even. Yeah, that seems like a good descriptor. Derek is beautiful.

They stumble and stagger throughout the funhouse with Derek only nearly setting his neck a handful of times. There’s a climbing wall that moves up and down when you step on it that Stiles thinks might be a huge risk. He doesn’t want to rip his pants but he  _ does _  want to see Derek struggle his way up it so, throwing caution to the wind, he plants his foot on the first step. The climbing wall pulls him up and down, up and down until he musters up the courage to slip his second foot onto the next step that pulls him higher. Then the next. Then the next. It’s kinda fun and Stiles grins as he clambers his way to the top. The motion reminds him of when he was a kid trying not to topple out of his dad’s old fishing boat. Instead of splashing headfirst into freezing water, if Stiles falls this time he’ll land in Derek’s open arms. Wow, isn’t that a thought?

When he gets to the top, he throws his fist up in triumph and spins on the spot to face Derek… who isn’t there. Frowning, Stiles shuffles over to the edge of the climbing wall and looks down. Derek is still at the bottom, his face turned up, eyes wide and jaw slack. There’s a pink colour to his cheeks, just above his stubble and a rosy tint to his ears too. Stiles figures he must be scared to climb and he rolls his eyes, yelling, “C’mon scaredy cat. It’s not that bad once you get started.”

Derek clears his throat and shakes his head, blinking, “I’m not scared, asshole.”

Leaning further over the drop, Stiles waggles his eyebrows, “Then what are you waiting for?”

In an act of defiance, Derek tackles the wall. Thinking about it, this might be the first time Stiles has ever seen Derek Hale appear uncoordinated. He’s a mess, swinging this way and that as he clings to the safety railings on either side of the steps. At one point, Stiles genuinely thinks Derek is going to tumble to his death, come back from the dead, then kill Stiles, making good on his earlier promise. As it goes, Derek doesn’t trip, fall or die and makes it to the top of the wall in one piece, if a little flushed.

“That was awful,” he mutters darkly and shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, looking sullen.

Stiles just grins, “I thought it was great!”

If Derek disliked the climbing wall, he hated the rolling floors and despises the rotating barrel. Someone big must be playing on one of the stages back in the field because the majority of the kids, teens and adults that had been hanging around disappear and Stiles and Derek find that they have the funhouse practically to themselves. This was always Stiles’ favourite when he was a kid. His dad would never fail to have a mini heart attack when Stiles would be dragged upside down as the barrel spun round and round. He didn’t care how many bumps or bruises he ended up with, he loved the thing and despite him being an adult now, he can’t help but launch himself straight at the rotating attraction.

Riding the barrel is just like he remembers and he pats the spot beside him, indicating for Derek to join him. The man does, though it looks like it physically pains him. He climbs in and sits opposite Stiles. At first, his ass rides up on the rotation and it takes him a little while to find the right way to sit so the barrel slips by underneath him.

Stiles watches him with a keen eye, taking in Derek’s displeasure. He doesn’t think he imagines the hint of a smile there, every now and again when he slips and the barrel drags him upwards. The smiles are only fleeting, though, and too soon Derek’s face is set back in its signature frown. Stiles snickers and leans back, “You look like I just told you your dog died.”

“I don’t have a dog,” Derek says, deadpanning.

Groaning, Stiles elects to ignore that and looks out of the barrel and over the field. There are people dancing and leaping about, getting food from hotdog vans and tumbling out of the makeshift bars. They look like they’re having fun. The event’s going to be a big success. Kali will be thrilled.

“We must be doing something right,” He smiles, bringing his attention back to Derek who’s looking at him with confused eyes. His head is tilted to the side. It’s kind of cute, “I mean, with all the people who wanted to see us. I know we argue a lot on air but I think these kids are really into it. Like, we’re making them happy, y’know?”

Derek’s confusion melts away and he nods, looking down at his outstretched legs, “Yeah, I know,” There’s a pause full of something, like he wants to continue. Stiles waits, “Before we started working together, my show wasn’t much fun. I liked it like that. It was calm and relaxing and no one bothered me. And, yeah, you coming in did throw everything up in the air and I felt like you were wrecking everything but… I guess I’m glad you came along. It really is a lot more fun with you around.”

Stiles can feel his face heating and it’s mortifying. He laughs nervously and looks down at his hands. What could he possibly say to that? Derek isn’t much of a talker and he rarely says anything to Stiles that’s blatantly kind. Not that he’s mean all the time but his compliments tend to be masked as insults. Derek coming straight out and telling him that he’s  _ glad _  Stiles is around… well, that’s- that’s a lot to take in.

It takes him a good couple of minutes to realise he’s smiling.

“Gee, Derek,” He chuckles, deciding to play it safe, lest they break out the rom-coms, “Way to make a guy blush.”

Derek rolls his eyes and climbs - stumbles - out of the barrel, “Shut up.”

 

Stepping into the raging crowds is like walking into a sauna. It shouldn’t be possible for it to be hotter outside than it is inside a tacky, old funhouse but somehow it is and Stiles hates it. He really wants another drink and to get away from these rowdy teenagers but Derek got a text as they left the funhouse and now it’s Stiles’ turn to obediently follow behind. While he usually likes the festival vibe, this particular crowd is rubbing Stiles the wrong way and he’s sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Derek is meeting up with someone. Meeting up with someone who  _ isn’t Stiles _ .

Too much salt is bad for your health but Stiles doesn’t care; give him that sodium. He’s aware that he’s scowling as he weaves in and out of the mass of people, trying to keep his eyes on Derek’s leather-clad back so he doesn’t lose him in the ocean of bodies. Derek is hard to lose, though, because wherever he steps, people part around him. Stiles wonders if he’s scowling, too.

They finally come to a stop near the front of the stage where two women are standing with VIP passes. Derek climbs over the railing with ease and greets the women while Stiles struggles to get his footing right and almost falls on his face, taking the guardrail with him. Luckily, he manages to dismount without any major casualties and brushes himself down, coming to stand beside Derek.

The women are gorgeous, that’s undeniable. One is a redhead with bright green eyes and a wicked smirk that makes Stiles want to cringe backwards under her penetrating stare. If Stiles wasn’t standing right beside Derek Hale, he might have been attracted to her. The other woman is a little bit taller than the other and is wearing a familiar frown that Stiles recognises immediately. All his angst melts away at once as he puts it together. This woman is obviously one of Derek’s lesbian sisters, and the redhead must be her girlfriend. He tries not to look into why that realisation brings him so much relief, though he knows fine well why.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” The redhead asks, balancing both her hands on her hips and catching Derek with a disapproving look.

Derek groans for some reason that Stiles doesn’t know and points at him with his thumb, kind of like Stiles is just some straggler that no one really cares about - a side character, if you will.

“This is Stiles,” He says, then folds his arms protectively over his chest, “Stiles, this is my little sister Cora and Lydia, her girlfriend. They’re going to leave you alone now.”

Neither of the women make any indication they're going to abide by Derek’s new rule. Lydia looks bored by Derek’s attempt to tell her what to do and Cora is staring up at a cloud that’s shaped faintly like a penis, likely not hearing a word her older brother said. They’re so cool and chill around him and Stiles wonders how they do it. Yeah, sure, he can throw a few insults out there now and again and crack some jokes but Derek looks uncomfortable and serious right now and realistically, Stiles isn’t sure if he could keep up his cocky attitude if he was on the receiving end of Derek Hale.

Okay, maybe he wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of Derek Hale at all, if you catch his drift. 

He regrets that.

Derek grits his teeth and Stiles thinks his jaw must hurt, “Aren’t you.”

It’s not a question but Lydia decides to grace him with an answer, “Yes,” She says, a very small smile quirking the corner of her lip. There’s a look of superiority to her, like she’s not used to being told what to do. She kind of reminds Stiles of a less physically aggressive Erica. He hopes to god they never meet. “We’ll leave him alone, won’t we, Cora?” Lydia then elbows her girlfriend in the ribs to get an answer which is mumbled and Stiles isn’t one hundred percent sure the woman knows what she’s agreeing to. He kind of gets the feeling Cora doesn't want to look at him, which is odd.

At that moment  _ Girl Crush _  by New Politics starts playing and Stiles is thoroughly taken over by the need to dance.

“Oh, bitch, I love this song!” He yells over the sound of the music and grabs Derek by the arm, dragging him into the VIP crowd before he even knows what he’s doing. Whatever, he and Derek were nice to each other in a spinning barrel thing inside a fun house - they’re  _ allowed _  to dance together. The people around them are jumping in time to the music and Stiles is quickly pulled into the movements of the tide, rising and falling in time with the rest of the sea of bodies. Derek looks like a startled deer in the headlights. It’s all sorts of cute - and isn’t that a weird thing to think: Derek Hale…  _ cute _ . But he is. There’s no denying it. The way his pink blush reaches the very tips of his tiny ears and how he tries to keep his stoic frown in place while he’s dragged around by the crowd. Stiles grins at him, his face flushed with the movements. He steps in closer. His hips sway as he sings along to the song he knows off by heart, bringing one rogue arm up to wrap around Derek’s shoulders.

“Like this!” He says loudly, his lips dangerously close to Derek’s ear. He’s only doing it so Derek will be able to hear him but there’s something pleasant about being so close to Derek, something that stops him from being able to pull away.

His advice must work because Derek manages to find his rhythm, following Stiles’ lead. They move and rock together and Stiles is smiling so wide it feels like his cheeks are about to split, cheeks that are now piping hot and flushed a brighter red than they’ve been all day. Stiles feels warm all over and something is stirring inside him, worsening the deeper he falls into Derek’s arms. He’s getting a little too carried away with himself and he needs to calm down, to cool down, before he does something regrettable.

He peels away from Derek who’s face is coloured with the same rosy pink and he points back in the direction they came from, “I’m gonna go get a drink!” He shouts and slinks away into the crowd while  _ Last Nite _  by The Strokes starts up.

 

He’s sweaty and sticky and gross by the time he makes it to the nearest bar. There was a boner - there was  _ definitely _  a boner - and it’s only by some miracle that it’s gone down undetected. He groans, hates his goddamn life and orders a beer. He needs to lay out the facts and get a hold of himself.

Okay. What does he know? Well, he knows he finds Derek attractive, that’s an obvious one. Who  _ wouldn’t _  find Derek attractive? And maybe, just maybe, Stiles finds Derek a little more attractive than the average person would. He also knows that he likes Derek as a person. Yeah, they bicker and fight, but Derek is funny and their back and forth feels easy and natural and it’s something that Stiles has come to look forward to. Derek makes his work day more enjoyable, Stiles knows that, too, and as they’ve learned from their talk, Derek enjoys Stiles’ company just as much. In fact, Derek thinks having Stiles around makes everything  _ a lot more fun _ . So there’s that. Those are the things he knows. There… that isn’t as scary. He’s still fucked, but it’s less scary.

When Stiles gets his beer it’s already flat and he suspects it’s been sitting on the bar without an owner for some time. He places it back down, not drinking any more and is about to signal for the guy who served him to get him a fresh one when a heavy hand weighs down on his elbow. It’s a big, firm hand and for a moment he thinks - or hopes - it belongs to Derek. It doesn’t.

“Let me get that for you,” Matt’s wallet is out of his back pocket and his money on the bar before Stiles can stop him. Still, he tries to protest but his voice gets caught in the back of his throat. His cheeks flush and coughs to try and cover his embarrassment. He’d known Matt would be here and it’s his own dumb luck that they’ve run into each other but he still manages to be surprised by the man’s sudden arrival. That might be because, even though they run into each other a lot, for the most part, Matt stays in his lane, not wanting to face the wrath of Stiles’ father again. Him popping up out of nowhere, placing his hand on Stiles’ arm and speaking to him so openly is… new - and Stiles doesn’t like it.

Thinking  _ fuck politeness _  and focusing on not becoming a trophy - because let's be real, if Matt turns out to be a straight-up serial killer, no one’s going to be all that surprised - he slips off his bar stool and makes a break for it. He doesn’t get far before Matt is on his tail. He grits his teeth and flexes his jaw, trying to calm the red-hot anger that’s flickering up inside his stomach; he doesn’t want to cause a scene or get in trouble, not at a work event at least. Braeden would understand, he thinks, if he punched Matt in the face right here, right now. He’s not too sure about Kali. Her employees, her  _ hosts _ , fighting at a fundraiser would be very bad for publicity and Stiles doesn’t think whether or not Matt deserves the beating of his life would ever come into it.

“Stiles, please,” Matt says and he sounds tense, like he’s genuinely hurt that Stiles is trying so hard to get away from him, “I just want to talk.”

Stiles is breathing quickly and his attempts at calming himself down aren’t going very well. He can’t see this ending in success. He think’s about going back to his jeep and calling it quits. Kira should be at home right now or maybe he could head straight to his dad’s. His dad would understand.

Matt grabs Stiles’ arm again and he spins on his feet, fist clench to find… not Matt.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Derek asks, nodding his head in the direction of where Matt is stopping in his tracks. If this were a cartoon, there’d be a screeching noise like tires on hot tarmac and dirt flying up at the back of his feet.

He can fight his own battles, he’s always been able to, but right now it feels really good to see a (not so) friendly face. Besides, Stiles is a big believer in letting your friends help you out when you’re in a sticky situation- and Matt, Matt can be pretty sticky.

Stiles shakes his head and glares back over his shoulder at where Matt is standing, looking between the two men, “No,” He says, taking a sick satisfaction in the way Matt’s cheeks flame in embarrassment, “I don’t want to talk to him. In fact, I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

He still feels uncomfortable but knowing he’s not standing here  _ alone _  with Matt gives Stiles some of his voice back. He feels a bit more confident and like he can tell that creep what he really thinks of him. After all, Stiles is pretty good in a fight and he’s willing to bet that Derek is even better. No one will be wearing his skin on this day.

Derek loosens his grip on Stiles’ arm and lets him go, probably sensing that Stiles is feeling better now and doesn’t need Derek to hold him together. It’s nice; sometimes when people find he and Matt together they act like Stiles is about to shatter like glass for weeks after. He appreciates the sentiment, but he really is okay.

“You should probably go,” Derek says to Matt and there’s something in his face, in the way his usually threatening eyebrows lift in a condescending way that feels more like a warning than anything else he could have done. Stiles likes it, it makes him feel warm and tingly and kind of like Derek is protecting him which is something he never thought he’d be into. Stiles is no damsel in distress but if Derek wants to sweep him off his feet, he won’t complain.

Matt backs off looking hurt and upstaged. It makes Stiles smile.

They’re silent for a long moment, the sound of distant music and cheering floating in the stagnant air. He knows Derek must be curious; that confrontation was weird and unsettling, he’s got to know something more was going on there than Stiles simply not getting along with one of his co-workers. Still, Derek doesn’t comment and Stiles is thankful for his silence on the matter.

Sighing, he takes a step away from Derek and looks around the field. They’re away from the majority of people and there’s a small, cluster of trees just before the preserve really starts. He tips his head in the direction of them, “Come on.”

The pair sit down under the cool shade and look out over the festival. Fresh daisies speckle the ground by Stiles’ crossed legs and he picks one of them, spinning the stem so the baby soft petals stroke across his chin. Neither of them speak, content with the growing silence. The sun above them is starting to set, bathing the scene in a pink and orange glow that soothes the wounds festering inside Stiles.  _ We Had to End It  _ by Cuco plays and Stiles relaxes a little, leaning back against the tree and turning his head towards Derek who he finds staring at him. Derek doesn’t look away when Stiles catches him watching. If anything, it feels like his eyes are burning hotter into Stiles now that he’s been caught than they had to begin with. Stiles smiles and looks down at the daisy in his hands.

“So, you’re probably wondering what the hell that was back there,” He says and, to his horror, his voice comes out a little rattly, a little unsure. He clears his throat and tries not to think too much about it.

When Derek speaks his voice is gentler than Stiles has ever heard it. He’s not sure if he loves it or hates it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Stiles nods and keeps his eyes glued to his daisy. He starts to fiddle with it, pulling off one, tiny petal, “No, I mean, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything,” Which is true, half of the station knows. Stiles had  _ not _  been quiet about his ordeal. He made sure everyone knew what sort of weirdo they were working beside. He’s glad he did, too, because, at the time, Matt had started hovering around Erica.

“It’s-” He groans, embarrassment getting the better of him for just a moment. He pushes it down, refuses to acknowledge it and carries on; he has nothing to be ashamed of, “Last year, Matt asked me out. I didn’t really want to go but he’d been so kind to me and he was a really good friend so I figured what harm would one date be and, I guess, I enjoyed myself. We went on four dates in total but I just wasn’t feeling it by the end and I wanted to stay friends. We never did anything, y’know, sexual, or anything. Just went out for dinner and drinks and stuff. We only kissed once, which is what made me call the whole thing off. It’s not that he wasn’t a good kisser or anything, it’s just that I didn’t feel anything, y’know? It was kind of weird.

“So, we break it off and he isn’t happy about it but who enjoys being broken up with? I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Stiles sighs and tosses his daisy off to the side, “Until he started showing up at places he shouldn’t. I thought at first that he was just trying to win me back by being spontaneous and surprising me with gifts when I was least expecting them - which is still super creepy and not okay but, I mean, some guys are kind of creepy and nothing comes of it. Eventually, they take the hint and go away, not realising how weird they are and never learning from their mistakes but at least they’re  _ gone _ .”

“He wouldn’t leave you alone?” Derek asks and Stiles looks over at him with exhausted eyes.

“Wouldn’t leave me alone?” He repeats and shakes his head, a bitter smile on his lips, “No, he full on stalked me for months. At first, it was like it was a coincidence; I would be at a cafe with my friends and he’d be at another table watching me. Every time I looked over at him he’d quickly look away which, sure, that  _ could _  have been a coincidence. Beacon Hills isn’t  _ that _  big, people run into each other all the time. It can’t be helped. But then he’d leave at the same time as me, follow me out. His car would be parked right beside mine and I drive a very distinctive jeep, he  _ knew _  that was my car. He started frequenting the same bars as me, he’d come to the bathroom at the same time as me. I had to stop going out drinking with my friends.

“It was even worse at work. I’d be sitting in my booth and he’d walk back and forth in front of my window about ten times a day. When I asked him about it he said he was just going to get things and that I was being paranoid and obsessed with  _ him _ . I didn’t think I was and neither did my friends. We were right, of course. Especially when we found out he had bought a new car and was sitting inside of it, watching my building to see when I would come out with his creepy fucking camera, taking pictures of me. I went out on a date with this girl once and he jumped out of the car and started questioning us. It’s safe to say that relationship didn’t last long. She was nice, though. She gave me advice on what to do when faced with a stalker.”

Derek is silent beside him, not saying anything, not interrupting him. He lets Stiles speak, lets him get it all out and it’s good. Usually, when he tells this story, he ends up with a lot of commentary from his shocked audience. It’s nice to just be able to  _ talk _ .

“Eventually, I went to my dad. He thought I should file a restraining order. He’s the county sheriff so he’s dealt with a lot of cases that start with stalking and - even though stalking is awful and terrifying - end with something much, much worse. I didn’t though. I guess my dad showing up at  _ Matt’s _  house was enough to scare him straight. My dad’s a really great guy but even I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

Derek gives a sad smile and squeezes Stiles’ arm, “Your dad sounds like a great guy.”

Stiles smiles back at that, “Yeah, he really is.” He says, then adds: “So, that’s my overshare for the day. I just wanted to, like, fill you in in case you thought, well, I don’t know what you would have thought but there it is. Do with that what you will.”

Honestly, Stiles doesn't know why he felt the need to tell Derek. He was right, he didn’t  _ have _  to tell him anything if he didn’t want to him. So, he guesses, he did want to. Maybe it was because he didn’t want Derek to think that anything's going on between him and Matt, that there are any feelings there. At least, not on Stiles’ side, there aren’t. That would make sense, since Stiles is very obviously crushing on Derek and there’s no point in denying it or pussyfooting around that fact. Yeah, that was probably why, and maybe just a little because he wanted to be honest with Derek. He wanted the man to know this very personal part of his life. He wanted to share with him.

Fucking hell, he’s so gross when he has a crush.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, gently again. He’s looking at Stiles with those same blistering eyes, the ones that make Stiles want to squirm.

He nods. He is okay.

“It’s getting late,” Derek says and stands, brushing down his pants. He offers a hand for Stiles and he takes it, allowing his co-host to help him up, “Do you want me to walk you to your car? I’m going that way anyway.”

Stiles does a half smirk and looks down at the ground, nodding. He feels all floaty and stringy from all his talking. It was cathartic and good but now all he wants to do is get home, curl up in his bed and hope to god Kira hasn’t destroyed their kitchen too much. Stiles knows what Derek is offering and he likes that too. It’s an invitation to be escorted to his car. Derek is  _ asking _  if he’d like to be walked there instead of the usual ‘I’m  _ going _  to walk you there because you can’t look after yourself anymore’. If he says no, Derek will respect that, Stiles is sure.

Stiles doesn’t say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor five-minute concentration span died writing this chapter. A moment of silence, please.
> 
> ♡ lets have a bare-knuckle fight on [tumblr](http://milkysterek.tumblr.com/) ♡


	7. Chapter 7

In no time at all, Derek has gone from a nice, reserved, level-headed young man to a total fucking nutcase. He’s losing it. There’s no denying that now and the sooner he comes to terms with his fate the better. Of course, this is all Stiles’ fault. Everything was fine before he came along. Before Stiles entered his life, Derek had never been near  _ hypnotised _  by an ass. Christ, he nearly bust a fucking nut in that funhouse. There were children there! To make it worse, Derek doesn’t even know if it was intentional. Stiles might naturally be that enticing, that  _ delicious _ .

Oh, fuck.

_ No One Knows _  by Queens of the Stone Age has been playing throughout his car as he speeds down the narrow streets that lead to Eclipse. The heavy beat and guitars do nothing to calm Derek’s racing thoughts. He needs to clear his head before his shift tonight; he can’t face Stiles again while he’s still in this mindset. If he doesn’t relax, he’ll end up saying something or worse.

Cutting the engine, Derek climbs out of his car and crosses the road to get to Eclipse. The bar is closed to patrons, not opening until later tonight but Derek is an exception. He’s always welcome here. He enters the bar to the sound of  _ Ulysses _  by Franz Ferdinand playing through the speakers and to the scent of beer and other alcoholic drinks. It’s warm and pleasant and strangely like home in some weird way Derek doesn’t want to look into. He doesn’t think he can be blamed for spending the majority of the daylight hours at a bar when it’s where all his friends are at any given time.

Speaking of his friends, Erica is sitting on the bar with her legs crossed, moving her shoulders to the music. She points at Derek and mouths the words when she spots him, still dancing. Isaac is beside her looking pissy since Erica appears to be sitting on his big book of crossword puzzles. A little away from them, probably more by choice than necessity, Boyd is restocking the spirits that hang just above the bar. He gives Derek a big smile when he sees him.

“She’s been blabbering on about wanting to see you for an hour now. Should I be worried?” Boyd asks with a chuckle, nodding his head over to where Erica is bouncing off the bar and making her way over to them, grinning those bright white teeth at the pair. She looks like she’s ready to eat Derek alive.

Boyd is Derek’s best friend and has been for years. He loves the man like a brother and would do anything for him, if he only asked. Since Erica’s dating Boyd and the two are pretty serious, he’s kind of fond of her too. Okay, he’s more than fond. Sure, Erica is a damn animal that’s prone to attack but she’s also a sweetheart who loves her friends more than anything. As far as Derek’s concerned, she’s family, too. Then there’s Isaac. Derek guesses Isaac is like the little brother of the gang. He looks up to Derek which is a lot of pressure because he sure as hell doesn’t ever want to let Isaac down. They’re a small group, just the four of them but they’re all each other need. They’re enough.

“Nothing to be worried about, baby,” Erica beams and kisses Boyd on his cheek, making them tint with pink blush. Derek doesn’t point it out because he’s a good friend. Then Erica turns on Derek with those piercing eyes and suddenly he feels the urge to sprint for the door, “Besides, Derek would be much more likely to run off with you.”

He won’t deny that. Boyd is a nice man.

“At least he has taste,” Boyd winks then heads out back for something.

“C’mon,” Erica says, taking Derek’s hand in hers and pulling him back over to where Isaac is sitting doing his crossword, now that they’ve been reunited, “Me and you need to have a little catch-up.”

“Why am I filling with dread?” He asks and Isaac snickers, his eyes staying glued to his puzzle. There are a lot of scribbles on it.

“Cause you’re a little bitch,” Erica says whip-quick and as smooth as her newly gelled nails. She’s chewing gum loudly and Derek wants to squeeze her cheeks to make her drop it which he has been known to do on occasion. It’s never worth it, though. Erica once picked her gum back up off the floor and forced it into Derek’s own mouth. He’s still trying to work through that. “ _ Sooo _ ,” She says, stretching the word out, like Derek is supposed to know what she’s leading on to. Erica rolls her big, brown eyes and groans, “How’s it going with Stiles?”

Derek chokes on thin air which is probably the most suspicious thing he’s done all week, and, well, that isn’t all that suspicious now that he thinks about it because it’s only Monday afternoon but, like, if you include last week. That’s how suspicious his spluttering is right now.

“That well?” Isaac smirks, his nose edging even closer to his crossword. He’s grinning, Derek can tell because his rosy cheeks are dimpled at the corners and his shy shoulders have a more relaxed set to them than they usually do when he’s hunched over. Derek considers tipping him off his stool.

It occurs to him, far too late, that Erica’s question could have been perfectly innocent. Asking your friend how they’re getting along with their new co-worker is completely normal and now he’s gone and blown it. There’s no backpedalling from this now. Moaning internally, Derek rubs the back of his hand on his forehead, trying and failing to even out the creases, then slumps onto the bar, face first. The bar is cool and smells like spilt beer despite how often Boyd scrubs the thing. It’s nice and he considers setting up shop and spending the rest of his life in an eternal headdesk. This is his life now.

“I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth but, Derek,” Erica lays a hand on his back and gives a supportive pat, “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“A little dramatic?” Derek asks, his fears, worries and anxieties getting the better of him. He’s not really the sort to spill his emotions to his friends but keeping all of this locked in is making him itch, like everything he feels for Stiles is scratching at the walls of his chest, trying to claw their way out. He needs to share  _ something _ . If he doesn’t, he’s ninety percent sure he’s going to explode all over Boyd’s nice new carpet - and no one wants that. He sits up and looks at Erica, “I can’t get him out of my head.”

Erica appears to be trying to contain a laugh and Isaac is openly snorting. He hates his friends, “You’re both assholes and I hope bad things happen to you.”

Boyd has always been much more sympathetic. People don’t really get that about him; they think that because he’s sometimes hard to read that must mean that he’s indifferent. Derek knows better than anyone how that logic is bullshit. With that in mind, he bails on his friends and weaves around the bar, heading to the back. Boyd’s checking stock, going down lists of orders and copying codes for the things he needs topping up. He lifts his head from the paper when Derek enters, takes one look at his dire expression and goes to find the whiskey.

“What’s getting you down,” He asks, pouring the Jack into a tumbler and pressing it into Derek’s hand. See? Boyd is a good friend.

Explaining this is probably going to be embarrassing but Boyd isn’t likely to laugh at him, not when Derek is so obviously worried by the situation. He’ll definitely laugh once Derek has calmed down a bit and stopped freaking out. Yeah, Boyd’ll laugh more than anyone. Derek presses his tongue to the inside of his bottom lip and takes a deep breath. 

“I have a problem at work.”

His friend nods like he knows exactly what Derek is referring to, or more accurately,  _ who _  Derek is referring to. To be fair, he probably does. He  _ is _  dating Erica after all and those two don’t have secrets from each other. In fact, Derek doesn’t know a couple who are more emotionally open and vulnerable with each other that Boyd and Erica. They tell each other everything...

That blonde shit’s sold him out!

“I’m guessing you know?”

Boyd nods, “Oh, I know everything. I just think it’s going to be good for you to say it out loud.”

Derek groans and drinks his whisky before saying honestly, “I really, really care about him.”

Unexpectedly, Boyd looks surprised by his admission which is weird because isn’t that what they’ve been talking about this whole time? Then again, Derek has never been good at reading a room. He’s about to ask what’s going on when Boyd blinks and places his own glass down on the small, battered coffee table he and Derek smuggled out of his grandma’s house last year. Somehow, she’s still yet to notice it’s gone.

“Damn,” Boyd laughs throatily and leans back in his armchair, “We all thought you just wanted to fuck him.”

Derek shakes his head. He wishes it were that simple, “I thought so too, at first,” He says. “Figured I could just fuck it out of myself. That did  _ not _  work - and trust me, I've tried. I've tried a lot. This is… more - and I’m terrified.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve dated,” Boyd says, understanding Derek’s wariness like instinct. He gets it. He always gets it. “It’s okay if you’re scared to put yourself out there again.”

Derek nods. His fingers are turning white from how hard he’s clinging to his glass, like it holds all the answers to his problem. “We argue a lot on air,” he says and Boyd smiles fondly at him.

“I’ve heard. To me, that sounds a lot like flirting. Sound a lot like flirting to the people who know Stiles, too.”

Part of Derek wants to deny that; it gives him the same feeling that he used to get when he was a kid and his moms’ would accuse him of putting baby frogs in Cora’s school bag. Sure, he had done it but getting caught made something in him turn defensive. His cheeks are as red as they were during the frog incident, too.

“I guess,” He says, thinking over his response, “I guess we do flirt - but he does genuinely piss me off. That’s not a bluff or anything or me trying to hide my massive crush. Me wanting to choke him is entirely authentic.”

Boyd smirks, “Kinky.”

“You’re a bad person.”

Chuckling, Boyd leans forward and takes Derek’s glass from his clasped hands. He places it back on the coffee table and looks Derek straight in the eyes. All it takes is one look and Derek knows he’s about to have all the bumps in his life evened out, “You’re worried that what you and Stiles have is all for the viewers, it’s entertainment and while you enjoy the back and forth you’re scared Stiles only sees this as a friendship at most. I’m willing to bet you’re also not fond of how ‘unprofessional’ dating your co-host would be?” Derek nods and Boyd continues, “That makes sense but I bet that, in the long run, you avoiding your feelings and trying to keep it bottled up is going to put more of a strain on your work relationship than telling Stiles that you like him ever would. That and Erica told me yesterday that Stiles told her he thinks you’re hot,” Boyd pauses and smirks just as deviously as his girlfriend ever could, “He thinks you’re  _ distracting _ .”

“He does?” Derek asks far too eagerly. Seriously? Stiles said that?  _ When the fuck did that happen?! _

“He does,” Erica purrs and Derek’s head whips around to stare, gaping-mouthed at her. She’s stood in the doorway with Isaac at her side, “In fact, I’d say he seemed a little insulted when I didn’t immediately agree with him. Methinks he’s a little defensive on behalf of his man.”

Derek wants to be mad that they’ve been hovering during his private conversation but he can’t find it in him. All he can think about is that Stiles thinks he’s hot. That’s… insane. He needs to know more, he wants every little detail of the conversation Erica has had with Stiles. Maybe she can get him the transcript?

“Aww, honey. You’re so sweet!” Erica laughs loud and breezy, then slips her phone out of her back pocket, “Here, why don’t I give you his number and the two of you can get this all straightened out.”

The idea of having Stiles’ number in his phone makes Derek warm all over but he’s hesitant. He knows Stiles’ history with Matt now; he doesn’t want to come off as creepy by getting his number from someone else without his knowledge or consent, even if he is pretty sure that Stiles wouldn’t have a problem with it.

“Shouldn’t you ask him if that’s okay first?”

Erica rolls her eyes and sighs as if Derek has just asked her for the world. She comes around the coffee table and wedges herself down beside Boyd, half sitting on his knee, half balancing in thin air. She types away on her phone and Isaac joins her - not sitting on Boyd’s knee, of course. Isaac looks over her shoulder and snickers, covering his mouth with her hand.

“What? What are you saying?” Derek demands and lunges for the phone. Erica swipes it out of his reach before he can clamp his fingers around the device and he deflates back into his chair, “Erica, please,” He almost whines.

“Oh, give over,” She chastises and flicks her hair over her shoulder, “He says, ‘Yes, you dumb bitch. WTF is wrong with you? Get your head in the damn game. Has Troy Bolton taught you nothing?’. Then there’s an eggplant emoji, a water droplets emoji and a tongue emoji. That’s supposed to depict a penis cumming and a mouth catching the cum, since I’m guessing you don’t speak emoji.”

Derek just stares, thoroughly confused. Erica groans and shoves her phone right into Derek’s personal space. When his eyes adjust to having to read so close to his face, he finds that the text does indeed say exactly that. It’s weird, but it’s accurate. He also notices that Stiles’ name in Erica’s phone is down as ‘Slutty Bottom’. Interesting. He’ll file that information away for later.

“Huh,” He says, breaking the silence, “That’s… okay. That’s good.”

Isaac shakes his head and grabs the bottle of Jack, “Well,  _ I _  think all of this is ridiculous. Look at us! We’re grown adults sitting around talking about boys at three on a Tuesday afternoon. Don’t any of us have jobs?”

Boyd frowns, “This  _ is _  my job.”

“I just got back from mine,” Erica adds, leaning into her boyfriend’s arms.

“And I work nightshift.”

Isaac glares at the three of them then throws himself down in a vacant chair, “I need to find a job.”

“Hey, if this whole thing works out with him and Derek, maybe you can nab Stiles’ old job!” Erica offers, grinning wolfishly right at Derek.

“Thanks but I would rather die - and don’t you need like… qualifications or experience or something to work in radio? How did you get your job?”

Erica shrugs her shoulders and looks disinterestedly at her nails, “The man who interviewed me was weak and easy to scare. I doubt you’ll be that lucky.”

From somewhere behind the mess of blonde hair, Boyd laughs, “You’re a terrifying lady.”

 

Derek’s sitting in his car listening to  _ Royal Highness _  by Tom Grennan when he finally plucks up his courage to text Stiles. He’s still outside of the bar so it’s not like he’s been waiting long. He stares down at the number in his phone that he now has saved simply as ‘Stiles’ with zero emojis after it because he isn’t a child. Taking a deep breath, he texts out ‘Hi.’ and hits send. His phone buzzes almost instantly. If Derek wanted to dream, he might think Stiles had been  _ waiting _  for his text. He opens the message and stares.

**Send nudes**

He really hates that fucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days cause I'm back on my bullshit


End file.
